Many Partings
by Celebrianna1
Summary: The war of the ring is over and now friends must say goodbye to each other. This story explores the lives of Arwen and Aragorn and five original heroines -Melénya, Nessa, Arien, Rien and Vana- through tragedy, honor, love, and loss.
1. Prologue: Lady Vana

In the year 3018 of the Third Age, in the month of September, Legolas, son of Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, returned to his realm from a long and fruitless journey deep into the Forest with a large company of Wood-elves. They had been seeking Gollum, a cunning and deplorable prisoner, whom Gandalf had committed to their charge. Their pursuit had led them south into the Forest along many treacherous paths until all trace of their prey had vanished.

Shortly after his return, Legolas was summoned before his father to apprise him of their unfortunate quest. His father, who was still wroth over the lives that had been lost during the battle to liberate Gollum, was none too pleased to learn that the villain had escaped unpunished. "So, this is to be our reward for the kindness that we've shown to this abominable creature," ruminated Thranduil, whose golden mien was graced with a crown of berries and red leaves as he sat upon a carved, wooden chair upon an elevated dais**.**

"We searched long for him, my lord, through many ill paths," lamented Legolas. "I cannot fathom how he's managed to elude us so entirely –to escape these woods scot-free. Gandalf shall be grieved to learn of this."

"Gandalf!" thundered Thranduil. "Was it not Gandalf who brought this misery upon us? When we would have treated this –this accursed creature in a just manner befitting its crimes, was it not Gandalf who moved us to compassion? Was it not he who persuaded us that there just might be some good left in it? How then does your sympathy lie with him when such evil has befallen us through his _false_ counsel?"

"Father, I cannot allow the sorrows that have lately beset us to eclipse my judgment."

This simple utterance, delivered in a solemn air of humility, acted as a double-edged sword in reproving his father's irrationality and defending his own position, which, of course, unduly precipitated the full brunt of his father's displeasure. They had lost many skilled Elven-warriors who were desperately needed to fortify their realm in the dark times to come and his father could not readily pardon this offence. Moreover, it did not take his father long to turn his thought –and tongue- to his complete failure to apprehend the chief culprit, and he did so with a decided vigor.

In due course, after his father had said his piece, Legolas was released from his presence. Several empathetic glances were cast his way as he forsook the stone-pillared hall to discover that some of the servants, who usually stood in its hindermost parts, had retreated to the safety of its exterior passage. As he bent his footsteps toward his own quarters, the spirited memory of his father's embittered outrage began to plant a seed of resentment in his own heart. He had expected his father's vexation, but he hadn't reckoned it to that passionate degree.

Sighing, he tried to shake off his own anger and disappointment as he traversed the softly illumined passageways. In a way he was glad to be well rid of their wearisome Charge, whom Gandalf had urged them to watch over night and day; but, sadly, the price had been too high. Not to mention the mischief that he felt was bound to ensue now that the wretched creature was once again abroad.

Outside his chambers, he found an elf-maiden waiting; she had come to deliver a note from her mistress. When Legolas saw the delicate hand written upon the missive, he smiled. Inside his Study, he sat lazily upon his chair and opened the note. It was from Vana, his childhood friend of many, long years. She had written to tell him that she had heard of his return and that she condoled with him for the irremediable loss of his charge. She also hoped that he would not be discouraged by this unfortunate business as she earnestly believed that, in this, Fate had a different purpose.

The truth was –after he'd endured patiently with his father's unmerited upbraiding, these kind words of exhortation now worked upon his mind to placate his anger, which was born out of season in the contemplative aftermath of the ugly confrontation. Thankfully, he would see Vana later that day, when they would all gather in the woods for merrymaking, and he would then have the unstinted benefit of her wisdom.

That night, while the Wood-elves made an excellent display of mirth, Legolas and Vana sat at the edge of the feast conversing quietly. "Dear Legolas," said she in her kind, gentle, conciliating way, "I know that your mind is unsettled…and it cannot please you to hear this now, but I believe that your father spoke out of his grief." The expression upon her pure, lovely face perfectly mirrored that of her generous heart; it beseeched him to hearken to her unfailing wisdom which, in times past, had never led him wrong. "I do not mean to say that I agree with his manner…and all that he has said, but we have indeed suffered a terrible loss. You must try to understand your father's feelings, which must be those of a sovereign –accountable for the lives of a precious many; and you must forgive his words, however unjust they were to you."

Though the prince was not ready to relinquish his cherished grudge, he did not doubt her words. This was invariably the influence of her benevolent charm, which always worked in his heart to sway him to nobler heights; likewise, before the passing of that night, the acrimony that had sprung up in his heart was duly lessened. "You have always done me good," said he, gravely and sincerely to his beloved companion. "Through the years, there were many times when, but for you, Vana, I would have lost my way. In all of my adversities –in all my misfortunes, you have always had a kind word to steady me."

In her diffident way, Vana was quick to temper his praise by reminding him that he had been no less admirable in his attentions to her through their long years. "I have always believed in you," said she in a sweet, steady voice, "and you have never disappointed me."

"I hope I never shall," he earnestly replied as he looked down into her upturned face.

Under the fervor of his gaze, Vana colored and began nervously to fondle her golden locks. In that brief moment, the easiness that naturally governed their friendship was somewhat altered. She turned slightly away from him and asked, "When do you ride to Imladris to tell Gandalf of Gollum's escape?"

"Two days hence."

"There is some talk among our people that the lands beyond are also multiplied with foul creatures." In her concern, she turned again to Legolas, desiring his reassurance. "I fear for you; the days grow more evil; yet I…I suppose, near and far, we are none of us secure or beyond the reach of this malice."

Legolas covered her hand with his, where it had been resting lightly upon his forearm. "We must all do our part where we can. My path leads me to Imladris; beyond that, I cannot foretell." He observed his companion closely; she was contemplatively silent. "Do not fear for me; only, pray that Eru will keep his servant long enough from harm to return home safely and unscathed."

"Most fervently, I will!" declared Vana with a zeal that brightened her light grey eyes, which, at other times, revealed the calm and peaceful spirit that reigned within.

Legolas was pleased with her answer; furthermore, it was not usual for her to demonstrate her affection thus openly; hence, he felt honored. "With such a pure heart watching over me from afar, through whatever danger I must hereafter tread, I will think of thee and remember thy thought for me."

The torch lights that were fastened to the tall, surrounding beeches cast a mellow light upon them. Her golden hair, which was crowned with red flowers, fell loosely around her shoulders and down her back. In the soft glow, Legolas thought her simple beauty exceedingly magnified. The bowl that had been passed to him by another, he now gave to her after partaking of its contents. They ate and drank in silence, until her sisters came to claim her company, for a short while.

Left to his own amusement, the prince's enjoyment of the harp's music and their fair elvish songs came more readily. As he watched and listened, his mind wandered to the glum road ahead. In those black days, the Forest was again inhabited by a profound evil that would make their departure, two days hence, a perilous one. Moreover, beyond the Forest, there was little expectation of a safer journey on the northern road to Imladris. All roads between him and Imladris were fraught with danger.

As he sat brooding, at length, he was joined again by Vana, who immediately succeeded in turning his thoughts to pleasant things. She sat serenely at his side and her melodious, fair voice rose in song above the chorus of the nearby elves, some of whom had ceased their song to savor her enchanting voice.

Thus, the rest of the evening was spent in song and joyous company that would live on in the prince's memory through the estrangement ahead. And on the day that he forsook his realm, as Vana had promised, he had forgiven his father so completely that he was able to bid him a kind, genuine farewell before departing with his somber patriarchal blessing. As to that most beloved and esteemed friend, he carried her quietly in his bosom every step of his dark, precarious journey.


	2. Concern for the Future

_Character illustrations can be viewed by clicking on the homepage link in my profile._

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It was the year 3019 of the Third Age, in the month of July, when the city-wide celebration of the royal marriage between King Aragorn Elessar and Queen Arwen Evenstar was winding down. The noble couple, ever cognizant of the imminent, and in some cases, permanent departure of their family and friends, had dedicated much of their days to their unsparing amusement. Moreover, since Aragorn had been king for several months preceding their wedding, many vital decisions regarding their realm had already been executed and the routine decisions of their kingdom delegated to the discretion of their advisors and councilors for as long as their family and friends continued in the city.

In the day past, Aragorn and Arwen had accompanied their guests on an extensive historical and architectural tour of Minas Tirith. Already most of the damage rendered to the city during the siege by Mordor was completely repaired and the city was a splendid reflection of its former self, as in the days of Lord Denethor, late Steward of Gondor. More promising still was the vow that Legolas and Gimli had recently sworn to Aragorn to restore the city to a beauty surpassing that of Minas Tirith of old, during the legendary days of Isildur. Notwithstanding, the city itself was still a magnificent image to behold with its white refulgent pinnacles, ponderous towers and cascading walls, all resting in the buxom of seven circular levels.

Arwen, especially, took great pleasure in acquainting herself to her new home, which still had something of the old world evident in its structures. Aragorn, who was significantly gratified by her enthusiasm, was pleased to witness the delight with which she questioned their scholarly Guide about the pertinent changes that had been made in the city since Isildur's reign. Admittedly, before, he had entertained his own doubts regarding her transition into this new world, but his fears had been much allayed by the blatant and undeniable happiness that characterized the genesis of their new life in Gondor.

Furthermore, before her arrival, he had personally seen to the arrangements in their palatial Suite to answer to her anticipated needs and pleasures. Overall, he felt that his labor had been sanguinely rewarded by the ease with which she had succumbed to her new habitation. Nevertheless, there was still one thought in particular that continued to weigh heavily upon his mind. The day of many partings with their friends and family was fast approaching. Within three days King Eomer was set to arrive in Minas Tirith to bear King Theoden back to his homeland, and when he forsook the City their entire party of friends would also depart with him.

Always thinking of the precious little time left to spend with their companions, the royal couple made especial good use of their days together. Indeed, Arwen shared many affectionate conversations with Galadriel during their daily walks through the gardens situated in the rear of the palace. During these late afternoon perambulations, Galadriel imparted countless words of wisdom regarding the governance of a realm and its people; but most expediently, she would often press her granddaughter to use the days well, now that she also was subject to the doom appointed to men. Accordingly, Arwen had often assured her that she was quite determined to live her days to their fullest; she could not soon forget the lengthy years of patient, and sometimes discouraging, abiding; the harvest indeed was a worthy recompense for all her past anxieties.

Two days before they were set to depart for Rohan, at the hour of sunset, Galadriel walked with Arwen in the gardens. It was a beautiful day; the sky was a clear, crisp blue and the wind blew lightly. The gentle rustling of leaves, the melodious chirping of birds in the surrounding elms, and the splashing echo of a nearby water fountain, were the only sounds that filled the air. The ladies had been engaged in a light pleasurable conversation when Galadriel decided to broach a subject that she had hesitated to introduce in the days past.

Clasping Arwen's hand, she led her to a stone bench sheltered by the dark green branches of an elm tree. She patted the seat next to her, and with a searching expression, Arwen complied. "My dearest, dearest darling," she thus began while smoothing Arwen's hair from her face. "If only your mother could see you now."

In a feeble attempt to stave off the sudden and prevailing gloom, Arwen smiled. When she remembered her dearly, beloved mother, her eyes became flooded with spontaneous tears. Somewhat ashamed, she turned slightly away. "But would she have been pleased?" Galadriel made no answer. "Grandmother, I cannot tell you what I have suffered in mind fearing her reception of my choice."

"Child, I do not think that anyone who has ever stood in your place was any less tormented; but, what can be done? You have chosen and the higher purpose of destiny has spoken. I truly believe that your union with Elessar was ordained for a noble end. Perhaps this might be of some comfort to you."

"Yes, perhaps it will," Arwen whispered. "Still, I cannot bear to think of the separation to come; yet, it is something that I know I must face."

"Alas, sometimes great love requires much of us," said Galadriel, gently clasping her hand. "Celebrían may never fully comprehend your choice, and her grief may never be lessened, but I believe that her perfect love for you will bear her on."

"As my love for Estel, and his love for me, must do for me."

"Yes, and I have every confidence that you shall both do well together. Through the years he has loved you so faithfully that I have grown to love him so very dearly. I am only sorry that we should part so soon after these blessed days."

"What do you mean?" Arwen had perceived something peculiar in her grandmother's tone that warned her that a revelation was at hand. She eased slightly away from the elder's embrace to observe her questioningly.

"I am at last weary of Middle-earth," Galadriel tenderly admitted. "The shores of Valinor beckon. I must diminish and go into the West."

Arwen was genuinely caught between sincere surprise and ascending sorrow. She could no longer deny the lassitude and grief that she now saw so plainly in her grandmother's eyes. Her heart sank as the futility of her hope of one day seeing her grandmother again, here, in Middle Earth, was forcibly impressed upon her mind; likewise, all of her fostered expectations regarding that particular hope had been summarily overthrown.

"It is as I feared," soothed Galadriel. "I have grieved you."

"Yes," Arwen earnestly confessed, "but we must not think only of me." She arched her neck and gently planted a kiss on her grandmother's cheek. "I shall miss you very much."

"And I, you," replied Galadriel as she drew her granddaughter close and relaxed her cheek against her hair. "But, henceforth, we must speak of better things. Tomorrow will bring what it will of joy and sorrow, but, for now, we have this time –this moment –this day." Her eyes grew cautious. "And, if you can allow the foolish hope of a dear grandmother, you might yet meet again your sundered kin."

"I should never dare to hope, Grandmother, lest hope ventured is…"

"Yes?"

"…is bitterly denied."

"Nevertheless, I think we can both agree that while hope underlies our sorrows, the journey is somewhat lightened," admonished Galadriel, who rose and offered Arwen her arm. For a while, they sauntered in mutual silence before she spoke again. "I think, my dear, that your heart will be gladdened when you have heard my tidings."

"More news then?" asked Arwen, warily, as she halted before her grandmother.

"Yes, and I think you will be delighted."

"Go on."

"It is regarding Melénya. She is to remain with you in Minas Tirith."

"Melénya!" replied an astonished Arwen. "But how? And why has she never spoken of this?"

"We desired to reveal it to you only in that moment when it would afford the greatest pleasure." Galadriel examined her granddaughter's countenance. "I hope I have chosen well."

Arwen's lips slowly parted in a radiant smile. "I can assure you that there is no small pleasure in hearing this news." She fondly clasped her grandmother's arm as they resumed their stroll. "But is it certain? I can scarcely believe it!" Truthfully, she could hardly contain her own elation when reflecting upon the anticipated pleasure of having Melénya with her as a close friend and the added advantage of an unbroken tie to the elven world that was rapidly fading.

Melénya was Celeborn's niece; a relationship established through his sister. In previous years her parents had removed to Valinor where her other siblings now resided. Although she was Arwen's senior by a few decades, a close bond had developed between the two elven ladies during the younger's sojourn in Lothlorien with her grandparents.

"It is already settled between her and Elessar," Galadriel straightly divulged. "I admit that it pleases me that there will be two, at least, left from the Eldar days to teach your children well. There is much about their ancestry, some of it good, some of it bad, that they will have to learn. However, I do fear that if good records are not kept, all of that knowledge will pass away and the truth of the mighty works of the past will be held in derision or hailed as myth."

"We thought of that –Estel and I—last December before he departed Imladris. At the time, our hope seemed vain; but, as our lot was invariably to be cast with the foolish, we persisted is speaking of this concern. When tidings came that the Ringbearer had succeeded in his quest, I took counsel with my father regarding our hope." She plucked a single rose from a rosebush and fleetingly inhaled its scent. "I could not say if my request was more of pain or pleasure to him, but he did not withhold his consent. Thenceforth, with an evident labor of love, or so it seemed to me, he spent many hours gathering and building a remarkable collection. As we speak, he and Estel are arranging the records in the room that we have elected for this purpose."

"I should have known that you would have considered it." In the western sky, the soft, mellow glow from the sunset reminded them of their dinner engagement. "King Eomer, I understand, has arrived in Minas Tirith."

"Yes. Our departure hastens with his coming." She glanced at Galadriel. "Grandmother, perhaps I should have voiced my appreciation before, but I want you to know that Estel and I are very grateful to you; throughout the years, your support has been a source of strength for us; even when the odds were multiplied against us, you always encouraged us. We are truly thankful."

"Child, say nothing of it. All I have done is for my love of you."

Arwen embraced and kissed her grandmother tenderly upon her cheek. "You are so kind. How shall I do without you?"


	3. Forgiveness and Acceptance

While Galadriel and Arwen commiserated on posterity and things present, Aragorn spent the better part of his afternoon setting up their family library. Lord Elrond, being more intimately familiar with the contents of the wooden crates, had offered his help to the king, who had gladly accepted it, partly because he welcomed the lord's learned and practical guidance and partly because he desired to confer with his father-in-law on a private and delicate matter.

"I think Arwen will be pleased," observed Elrond, casting an appreciative eye around the commodious room, which was elegantly fitted up with several tall dark wooden bookshelves. He began to fondle a ribbon-knot that bounded several soft pages together in a manuscript. "There is much to learn of the Eldar days in these records. This, account, in particular, tells of the fate and fall of Doriath, that once great and forbidden realm."

Aragorn accepted the manuscript that Elrond now passed to him, held it reverently for several moments before placing it in the spot arranged for it. "It's our ardent wish to have our children schooled in the noble history of their ancestry. With your diminishment into the West, and that of Galadriel's, it is inevitable that much wisdom will pass away." He hefted one of the last crates and placed it carefully unto a table. "If I could have my way, I'd preserve all the remnants that I could garner of that fading world to bequeath to our future generations. Arwen and I are greatly indebted to you for giving us that generous start."

"Say nothing of it," dismissed Elrond.

Aragorn fell silent. In speaking of these things, he was reminded of that certain, but unspoken, rift that still existed between them concerning that particular treasure that was universally in their thoughts. Naturally, there was much to feel and endure and much more still to reconcile with Elrond, but he hesitated.

"Estel, what troubles you?" Elrond had perceived a change in Aragorn's visage, which had betrayed something of the latter's uneasiness.

"I hesitate to speak of it –for fear of the sorrow it might revive."

Elrond was gravely silent and appeared as though some darkness obtruded upon his heart as he sank heavily into a nearby chair.

"There is still that troubling matter between us, of which neither of us has spoken since that fateful day in Rivendell so many years ago."

In observing Elrond as he spoke, for the first time Aragorn realized the indelible change that his triumph had wrought in Elrond. Beholding him as he was, —broken and aggrieved—he could not be easy. Straightway, his mind was quickened with an unhappy memory from his very distant past:

_But there will be no choice before Arwen, my beloved, unless you, Aragorn Arathorn's son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world. You do not know yet what you desire of me."_

These words, uttered in the season of his youth, in another place, in another time, accused him. He had been warned, but that warning had gone unheeded to give way to his own desire. Thus, before Elrond, he could not be guiltless.

Laying aside the book he had been holding, he turned to Elrond. "Am I forgiven?" asked he, half dreading the answer. "Or do I ask too much?" He had pondered it so many times. Was pardon even possible? Hadn't he himself, in full knowledge of Elrond's feelings, still brought to bear this plight upon him? Shouldn't he have chosen to do that which was right and honorable by denying himself, in deference to the lord's sentiments? Was it not therefore necessary, for him, in whom this offence resided, to atone, in some shape or form, for this willful act?

"Perhaps," admitted Elrond, looking Aragorn frankly in his face.

Aragorn inhaled sharply, as though steeling himself against some disconcerting emotion.

"But, —if I am to judge my heart by my actions, then I believe it is safe to say that I have forgiven you."

"Thank you," replied Aragorn after a startling pause, which was momentarily succeeded by a feeling of relief and gratitude for this exoneration by lord and conscience. "I never wanted it to come to this. I am sorry that through my happiness you are brought to grief."

"It was inevitable," replied Elrond, so quietly, so meekly, so numbly, that Aragorn wondered. "For many years I foresaw it. When I first learned of my daughter's choice to cleave to you, I was deeply saddened. I found the doom long forestalled none the easier to bear. When next I saw you and swore that my daughter's life grace will not be diminished for less cause than Queen of Gondor and Arnor, I spoke as a father in despair. I lamented the bearing of such tidings to Celebrían. To arrive in Valinor without our daughter, I felt, was too much to endure. Celebrían will expect to see her daughter. I pray only that the words be granted me in that hour to lessen her sorrow."

"Do not be troubled, Estel," continued he. "The joy of my daughter is no small treasure. Had she chosen to forsake you, I fear that her fate might have equaled that of Lúthien. For me, it is more desirable to live with the knowledge of her happiness than the trial of her grief. An unhappy spirit and wounded peace is poison to anything that is wholesome. For a long time now I have known that in you rest the wealth of her happiness just as in her dwells your hope. The Telcontar household will be blessed beyond measure. I know this. I have foreseen it." Here he rose from his seat to resume his task. "That, at least, consoles me."

During the passing of the next hour, while they worked, Elrond began to inquire into Aragorn's plans for the restoration of the Northern Kingdom of Arnor. Elladan and Elrohir, who had joined them within that hour, had readily pledged their help to their brother. They were to ride back to the north with their father when he departed and planned to join the Northern Dúnedain in their efforts to enforce the king's ordering of his realm.

At length, the four decided to retire their efforts for the day. Before leaving, Aragorn quickly surveyed the room to determine their success. His light grey eyes affirmed his subtle pleasure. The library mirrored his goal. It was comfortable yet studious. He wanted the researcher to enjoy the tranquility of the room and yet be humbled by the presence of the vast histories of Middle-earth. "Yes, I think you are right, Elrond," he soliloquized, "Arwen will be pleased."

Directing his footsteps towards his bedchamber, he felt a sudden pang of sorrow as he realized for the first time that evening that it would be the last time that Minas Tirith would be graced with the presence of the ancient world.


	4. Foolish Hearts

As Aragorn entered the suite, Arwen turned to him. "Estel, what took you so long? I was almost resolved on sending your manservant to find you."

"We had a lot to do," he said, apologetically kissing her hand.

"Well, had you any success?"

"I shall leave it to your own judgment," he answered evasively.

Arwen dismissed her attendants and followed her husband into their bedchamber. "Your raiment for this evening is ready," she informed him as she pushed her way into an adjoining room to determine if the servants had kept the bath warm, as she had instructed. Sure enough, there was steam rising from a large, white marble tub that was encompassed about by three circular, graduating steps of a blended white and natural pattern.

"Do not idle, Estel," she urged, "the bath is ready. It will not do for us to be late at our own feast." She quickly planted a kiss on his lips and hurried to her dressing room where her attendants were waiting to assist her. She wore her long, black hair loose with tiny studs of gems for adornment. Since the feast was a tribute to their family and friends, both she and Aragorn had decided to forego the formality of their royal headpieces.

Cautiously, and with the aid of her attendants, she slipped into a floor length navy blue gown, which greatly complimented her slender figure. Satisfied with her appearance, she dismissed her maidens and proceeded to the bedchamber to check on Aragorn.

When she entered the room, Aragorn looked up. He still marveled at her ability to quicken his pulse even after all these years of courtship. He found her to be exceedingly fair and undoubtedly the most beautiful creature that his eyes had ever beheld. He was very much aware that among her people it is said that the likeness of Lúthien Tinúviel has appeared to grace Middle-earth once more. Her uncommon beauty, however, was only a small part of his reasons for loving her; but all the same, he had no reservations whatsoever in conceding to his immense gratification when contemplating her beauty.

Seeing her now, as she drew nigh unto him, the following words came to him like a whisper upon the wind:

_But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and Lórien, Evenstar of her people, she is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you._

"My lord?" she asked, as she began to adjust the collar of his tunic.

"Nothing," he said, lightly brushing the back of his slightly curled fingers against her cheek.

"My dear husband," she gently teased, "it would be quite ungracious of us to delay our guests any further."

Aragorn slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. "We have hardly been alone these past two days," he whispered endearingly.

Arwen smiled and gently kissed him. "We have the rest of our lives together, Estel," she softly chided. "It's not so where our friends are concerned."

"Yes, I know." Aragorn sighed heavily and buried his face in her hair.

Arwen embraced him closely as they both sought to stem the heightened flow of sorrow that oppressed their hearts. "Memories will be sown anew tonight, Estel." He gently kissed her forehead. "It is all very foolish, I know, but I wish very much that we had many more nights like these?"

"Foolish?" said Aragorn, intertwining his fingers with hers. "No, never foolish."

"You do not judge clearly, Estel," whispered she, pillowing her head against his chest. "We knew this day would come."

"Still, you judge yourself too harshly," he whispered into her hair. "It is never foolish to wish that those whom we love are always near. I could almost curse the day that I brought this mischief upon you."

"No," protested Arwen. "No regrets. Not our love."

"No regrets," conceded Aragorn.

Arwen's lips parted in a small smile, as his fingers began to gently trace her bonny features. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.


	5. A Night to Remember

Among the guests assembled in the dining hall were Lord Elrond and his household; Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn and their Lothlórien elves; Prince Imrahil; King Eomer; Lord Faramir; Lady Melénya; Gandalf; and the other fellowship members. Dinner was preceded by a few words of welcome from King Elessar, after which succeeded a long procession of delectable dishes, amid a perpetual hum of lively conversations, accompanied by the soft serenade of violins.

"I admit, I was more than a little surprised," said Arwen, in talking to Melénya about her decision to linger in Middle Earth. "But, are you sure about this?"

"Yes, of course I'm sure."

"I know how much you miss your family."

"Yes, I will not deny that," she touched Arwen's hand and assumed a more solemn tone, "but, you're my family too, and henceforth, our parting must be in some distant time as man reckons it."

Arwen smiled appreciatively, her eyes communicating her sincerest affection. "So, why did you conceal it from me?"

"I thought Aunt has already explained it to you."

"The truth is –she was never sure until yesterday," remarked Elrohir. "There. I said it. Now would you both spare me and speak of something different? You sure do nitpick a lot."

"Elrohir! Forgive me, but I don't see how any of this is your concern," reprimanded Melénya, somewhat irritated by his ill-humor.

Both she and Arwen were more than a little perplexed by his abrupt display of antagonism that was so unlike his usual way with them which tended, most times, towards levity. Arwen, in particular, was disturbed by his evident perturbed air. He must have felt her lingering stare because he looked up suddenly and held her gaze for a time before his features eventually softened.

Despite his unnatural manner, Elrohir felt that he had acted wisely. His aim had been to discourage the provocation of grievous sentiments, which he reasoned would have undoubtedly arisen during the course of their conversation about Valinor. Such was his love for his sister, which could scarcely be outdone by that of her father, or that of his brother. Were it in his power, every dark feeling that overshadowed their lives would be banished from that evening.

At the conclusion of dinner, spirits were high and there was hardly a lack of good conversation among the company. Admittedly, in the relative calm of the dinner atmosphere, Frodo's happiness had retained its imperfection, being still tainted by the dreadful memories of his recent dark quest, which obtruded, occasionally upon his consciousness.

Hereafter, a miscellany of entertainment began, exhibiting the far superior talent of the elves in song, tale telling and melody. Indeed there was hardly a face among the company that was impervious to the exceptional talent of the elves and barely a heart untouched by their musical charm.

Later, during a break from the tale telling, Arwen had opportunity to speak with Frodo and Sam, whose initial diffidence in the presence of one so fair, was surmounted only by her graciousness. Notwithstanding, when all was restored to some semblance of ease among them, it became eminently clear to the lady that the Shire weighed heavily upon the hobbits' hearts and minds. Every word they had spoken and every sentiment conveyed had illuminated that much.

At length however, Aragorn sought to claim his wife and any hope of further conversation between the three, overthrown. As King Eomer had arrived in Minas Tirith some time short of the feast hour, a formal introduction to the Queen of Gondor was necessary. Hence, the presentation was made with the lord and lady exchanging a cordial word of greeting followed by a brief dialogue concerning the former's journey to Minas Tirith.

For Eomer, comfort could not be his air. It would have to be the fruit of many months, if not years. Although he had often been thrown together with Legolas, one thing was certain –it would take more than a moment's work to undo the prevalent superstition that had hitherto dominated his life. Indeed, he acknowledged all of their claims to wisdom and beauty, but in his mind, these traits were considerably tempered by that startling and unfathomable mystery that governed their race. Therefore, he could not easy.

As the dispersed began to gather again, it was inevitable that the tale telling would resume. Having a natural fondness for tales, Glorfindel led the way by regaling the company with that timeless tale, the Lay of Lúthien Tinúviel, which was dearer to some hearers who had a more perfect knowledge of the triumphs and trials of the fated lovers described therein. After this, other tales followed of humor, valor and tragedy, which set on fire a maelstrom of emotions in the more tender breasts of the company.

By and by, there was no small measure of surprise among the party when Sam stood up to recite a poem about Gandalf that he had obviously taken the pain to compose.

"You helped him," whispered Arwen to her husband, recalling that he had disappeared for a time with the hobbits.

"The credit is Sam's."

As the hobbit continued to amuse his audience with his anecdotal verses, Gandalf retained his impenetrable veneer. Those who sought to discern his reception did so to little avail. The wizard was still as close as ever.

"Well done, Master Sam," praised Lord Elrond, who joined the enthusiastic applause that marked the hobbit's conclusion.

Blushing crimson red, Sam bowed. He was very relieved that his poem was so well received by the elves.

"Well, Gandalf?" appealed Lady Galadriel.

At last, the wizard's facade crumbled as he erupted into a merry laugh, ruffling Sam's curls, and thanking him for his tribute.

"What about us, Sam?" Pippin complained. "We helped too."

"Come on, Pip," said Merry. "There's no use fretting about it. It was Sam's poem."

"Oh, alright then," Pippin mumbled, "but it's still not fair." He scratched his thick curly head and began to look around as though he was looking for someone. "Say, Gimli, what about your poem?"

Unfortunately for Gimli, at that very moment, a quiet lull had fallen over the chatter in the room, magnifying the hobbit's voice well beyond the confines of their intimate group. Thus, there was hardly an ear in the room that had not been privy to this bit of news.

"Eh, well…" he fumbled, near speechlessly and quite unmanned and mortified by the hobbit's inadvertent revelation.

"Fear not, Gimli," whispered Legolas, who was looking at the expectant, and in some cases, surprised faces that were turned their way. "It's a worthy poem."

"Seems everyone's a poet tonight," derided Avallon, an elf from Lord Elrond's household who was notorious among his own people for his supercilious and peculiar ways.

When Melénya had heard this remark, she rolled her eyes. It was no secret between them or among their general acquaintance that a natural and frank degree of enmity existed between them. Neither did they feign the slightest modicum of friendship to please their mutual friends. There was absolutely nothing false about their relation to one another. Hence, when the elves began to cheer Gimli to share his poetry, and she saw the apparent look of indignation on the haughty elf's face, she took no pains at all to conceal her own amusement over his vexation, however cruel it might seem.

By this time, a hush had slowly begun to envelope the room as Gimli started, not so eloquently, to share his poem, which was a pleasant ode to a fair lady of unrivaled beauty. At its conclusion, he was just as exuberantly applauded, though much more so for the content of his poetry rather than its delivery, which had left much to be desired.

"This fair lady, who is she?" asked an elf. The dwarf hesitated.

"Well, Gimli?" urged another.

Summoning his once teetering courage, he slowly turned to Lady Galadriel and bowed very low.

A profound silence seized the room. All comprehended. Some were astonished, some were baffled, and there were those who were much offended by what they felt to be Gimli's presumptuousness and thought Lord Celeborn a little too placid in the face of such daring.

Lady Galadriel, wishing to resume the gaiety and relieve the dwarf of his awkward position, now rose to declare, "It is indeed an honor Gimli, son of Gloin, to be thus distinguished as the fairest of Arda when my granddaughter, in whom it is said that the likeness of Lúthien has returned to grace Middle-earth, sits among us. I thank you for that honor."

"Ah, a poet is never without inspiration," said Glorfindel, a little aside to Gimli. He thought it a genuine perplexity to find a dwarf who cherished something other than the work of his own hands. "Your words suggest that you are an ill-fated dwarf, my friend, though I am sure it is through no fault of yours. The Lady Galadriel is indeed as golden as the sun in all its glory and one of the fairest to grace Middle-earth, but Arwen Undómiel, the evening star of our people, has not her equal in our hearts."

Meanwhile, some distance away, the royal pair sat contently by observing their guests and speaking quietly together. Near to them sat Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn, Lord Elrond and Gandalf reminiscing about ages past. In a different vicinity of the hall sat Legolas, Gimli, Melénya, and the Hobbits, who with varying expressions of wonder, listened as Glorfindel told of his triumphant defeat of a Balrog of Morgoth. Off to their left stood Prince Imrahil, Lord Faramir and King Eomer involved in a solemn conversation regarding the business of their realms.

"It was a lovely evening," said Elladan as he bent to peck his sister lightly on her cheek before slipping into the seat next to her and across from Elrohir, who sat with his eyes transfixed upon some undetermined object across the room. "You seem preoccupied, Elrohir."

"What!" Elladan repeated his remark. "Oh." The others were looking at him inquisitively, denoting their expectation of an answer. "It's Melénya."

"What about her?"

"I don't think I've ever seen her quite so taken with anyone as she seems to be with the Prince."

"I don't think I've ever seen her taken with anyone at all," corrected Elladan.

"True. I hope she knows what she's doing."

"Then you object, Elrohir?" asked Arwen.

"No. Not really. But, I hope at least that she will be cautious. Has she spoken to you of this?"

"You know I cannot answer that. Whatever has been spoken to me in confidence, if anything, must be kept private."

"Yes. Forgive me. I did not think."

* * *

At the end of the evening, before Gimli retired to his chamber, King Eomer summoned him to his suite. When he arrived, the king greeted him with these words, "Gimli, son of Gloin, where is your axe?"

"It is in my chamber, but I can fetch it speedily."

"There are certain rash words concerning the Lady of the Golden Wood that lie still between us and now I have seen her with my own eyes."

"And what say you now?" asked Gimli.

"Alas!' said Eomer, "I will not say that she is the fairest lady that lives."

Then Gimli answered saying that he must then fetch his axe. But Eomer pleaded his excuse saying, "Had I seen her in other company I would have said all that you wish in her praise. But now I must say that Queen Arwen Evenstar is first and I am ready to do battle for my part."

Then Gimli bowed and said, "Nay, you are excused. You have chosen the evening where as my love is given to the morning and my heart forebodes that it will soon pass away forever."

With this utterance, he took leave of Eomer with a heavy heart and retired to his chamber.


	6. An Unexpected Gift

The day next, Arwen awoke to find Aragorn already gone from their bedchamber. Summoning her attendants to her, she proceeded to begin dressing for the day. After breakfast, she was finally resolved on inviting Melénya to the garden to talk privately about that intimate matter that Elrohir had raised the night preceding, when Aragorn entered the double doors of their chambers and greeted her with a gentle kiss.

"Come with me," said he, taking her hand coaxingly and leading her from their rooms and down a long, polished, marble corridor where they both halted before a large oak door after turning several corners. "Close your eyes." Eager to please him and mildly amused by his mysterious antics, Arwen unhesitatingly acquiesced. Momentarily, she felt the firm pressure of his hand around her waist guiding her carefully into a room with an atmosphere that was laced with the aromatic scent of ink and leather-bound books. "Open your eyes."

Slowly, she began to survey the room. The first thing that caught her eyes was a large painting of Caras Galadhon, which hung upon the wall to her right. She was incontinently drawn to it and another that was like it that hung adjacently upon the wall that illustrated the enchanting beauty of Imladris. As she studied these, her face became a poignant mirror of pleasure, unperfected by that unshakeable shadow of sadness that she knew would be with her for the rest of her days. Eventually, she came to stand before a slightly smaller painting of Cerin Amroth in Lothlórien, where ever blooms the yellow elanor and the pale niphredil in the unfading grass, which would forever be a sacred place to her and her beloved.

As she continued to study the painting, silently praising the unparalleled skill of the artist, she suddenly felt Aragorn's presence beside her. "It was our wish to present these to you in memory of Imladris and Lothlórien as they exist now," he quietly revealed. "Sadly, as it is with the loss of any preserver, it is inevitable that the beauty of these realms will lessen with the passing of Elrond and Galadriel."

"Yes," said Arwen in a resigned toned. "Until now, I have never allowed myself to think on such things." She felt Aragorn's empathetic hand on her shoulder, drawing her close to him. "It wounds my heart to think of it."

Within the hour, they were joined by the rest of their family whom Arwen was able to thank individually. "You have all been so very kind and thoughtful," said she. "I shall treasure them always."

Between themselves, Elrohir and Elladan supported what seemed to be another large painting which, at Elrond's bidding, they now lifted for the others to admire. It was an eloquent portrayal of Isildur cutting the One Ring from Sauron's hand during the war of the Last Alliance. It was Elrond's parting gift to Aragorn. "Let it be a symbol to you, Estel, of how far you have risen above the height of all your forefathers since the days of Elendil, the Faithful."

By the time Aragorn and Arwen ushered forth from the house unto the neatly trimmed turf, now decorated with several white erected canopies, Elrond's admonition still dominated his thoughts. There was still much bustling in and around the house, so the pair decided to take refuge in the solitude of the Citadel, where, seated near the fountain, the lady began to sing a song of Valinor. As the White Tree grew and blossomed in the fresh morning air, the melody of her voice drifted upon the vacillating wind filling the courtyard with a sweet undulating chorus.

When the sun was nearing its zenith, the couple espied Frodo, who was approaching from the path that led to the Great House and they both rose to welcome him. Aragorn had already divined Frodo's purpose in seeking them and immediately spoke of it.

"I know what you have come to say, Frodo: you wish to return to your own home," he began, and continued to speak of the hobbits, their cherished land and the fame and renown that was to be theirs henceforth.

"It is true that I wish to go back to the Shire," said Frodo. "But first I must go to Rivendell. For if there could be anything wanting in a time so blessed, I missed Bilbo; and I was grieved when among all the household of Elrond I saw that he was not come."

"Do you wonder at that, Ring-bearer?" said Arwen, looking upon the hobbit kindly. "You know the power of that thing which is now destroyed. All that was done by that power is now passing away. But your kinsman possessed this thing longer than you. He is ancient in years now, according to his kind; and he awaits you, for he will not again make any long journey save one.

"A gift I will give you, Frodo, for I am the daughter of Elrond," she continued. "I shall not go with him when at last he departs for the Grey Havens, for mine is the choice of Lúthien. And like her, I have chosen both the bitter and the sweet. In my stead, therefore, you shall go if you so choose, into the West where your hurts and weariness will be healed."

Arising, Arwen walked over to Frodo and said, "But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven."

Taking a white star-like gem that lay upon her breast, hanging on a silver chain, she set it about Frodo's neck. "When the memory of the fear and darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid." She bent and softly kissed his forehead. "Through your sacrifice, we have gained our hope."

Frodo's heart swelled within his breast as he bowed to her reverently and expressed his gratitude.


	7. An Afternoon of Sport

Later that day, in the early afternoon, the company was assembled in the courtyard at the rear of the Royal House. Several canopies sheltered them as they sat in desultory groups conversing mirthfully after partaking of a generous lunch. In an obscure corner, Lady Galadriel and Elrohir sat before a chessboard, as Frodo, Merry and Gandalf quietly observed the game. The lady's face was an expression of amusement, as Elrohir, insensible to all around him, studied the board. A quick examination of their tactic, however, had convinced Gandalf that although Elrohir was a good player, he still lacked the skill, or perhaps it was foresight, that was necessary to outwit his grandmother in order to win the game.

"Good game, Elrohir," said Galadriel, after she had brought a triumphant conclusion to their match, "but one thing is lacking. Your counterattacks come too late. If you want to win, you must become better at anticipating your opponent's moves. Keep practicing."

"Thank you, Grandmother," bowed Elrohir, "but I will defeat you one day."

"I look forward to it," replied the lady.

"Well, Gandalf," said Elrohir, relinquishing his seat, "I hope you have better luck."

"Hmm!" puffed the wizard, blowing a thin circle of smoke into the air. "I think I'd fare much better relying on what's in here," mused he, tapping his forefinger against his temple.

Meanwhile, across the greensward, a sturdy target board was set up for sport. Armed with bows and arrows of distinguishing colors, Aragorn, Legolas, Eomer, Elladan, Faramir, Melénya, and Arwen were ready to compete. While Gimli and Sam elected to remain as spectators, Pippin offered to recover the spent arrows and Glorfindel volunteered to judge the validity of each player's shot. At the side of the lawn, many of the fair company sat in restive expectation of the first round as the preparations to begin were finally concluded. The rivals, who stood chattering amongst themselves, could be seen testing their bows and stretching their limbs. Not to be cowed by the skill of their valiant friends, the ladies felt themselves in every way equal to their challengers. Having participated in countless archery matches in the Golden Wood, they were not ashamed of their skill or their gifted eyesight, which allowed them to descry miniscule objects at great distances.

Nevertheless, in spite of the increasing spirit of competition, the general mood was genial. "Good luck, Lady Arwen –Lady Melénya," said Legolas. The ladies likewise wished him well, and would have said more had it not been for Glorfindel's summons to begin the game. Presently, the target board stood at a distance of two and thirty yards, and would be removed a further twenty yards with each successive round. To accomplish this, each player's arrow had to at least fall within the circle immediately surrounding the bull's-eye or in the bull's-eye itself.

By the time the first round began, the sun had already begun its descent. When all the players had qualified to the second round, the board was removed a further twenty yards. While the players pondered this new distance, Melénya and Arwen exchanged amused glances as they quietly observed the men. Elladan and Legolas were confidence, personified, while Faramir and Aragorn betrayed little emotion as they watched Eomer step up to the line to shoot his arrow. He focused long on his aim, no doubt attempting to guarantee the requisite shot. Silence consumed the gathering as he cunningly bent the arrow in his bow, widening its breadth, before releasing it with lightning swiftness. Almost immediately, Glorfindel raised his hand confirming the shot. Eomer visibly relaxed and the throng of spectators began to clap. By rotation, he had been the last archer to succeed to the next round.

This round, the players all knew, would be the one to settle their fate, and sure enough, it was not long before Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer were eliminated and relegated to the ranks of the cheering throng. By now, after two interesting hours of chess, the game between Lady Galadriel and Gandalf had ended. Lady Galadriel, possessing more patience and greater skill, at least where chess was concerned, had emerged the victor, but congratulated Gandalf on being an opponent worthy of a future rematch. They too now joined the spectators across the green turf where Melénya, Arwen, Legolas and Elladan were still faithfully competing, none giving way to the others.

Notwithstanding, as the afternoon waned, Legolas and Melénya alone remained. The board was now set at an incredible distance, which caused one or two among the audience to marvel at the players' ability to discern the target at such a great distance. Both players knew that the time had come to determine the champion. At the moment, Legolas stood poised to shoot his green arrow. He stared off into the distance for a long time before adeptly releasing his arrow, which sang swiftly through the air with remarkable precision. Every eye was turned towards the target board, though some indeed was forced to await Glorfindel's affirmation, which came shortly by the appearance of his raised hand. Charged with the task of relaying the odds to the last contender, Pippin ran the distance to the general assembly to declare to Melénya that her shot would have to be a perfect one if she wanted to usurp Legolas' advantage.

Before stepping up to the line, Melénya took a deep breath and glanced at Arwen, who nodded slightly, communicating some sort of subtle message that only they two understood. Placing her purple arrow into the bow, she began to concentrate on her aim and target. After a time, which to some felt like an eternity, she released the arrow. As it whinnied through the air, again all eyes looked anxiously to Glorfindel for his signal, which, strangely, did not come, prompting an immediate murmur among the audience. Some of the keener spectators had even risen to their feet and was ready to bridge the distance to the target board, but was stopped short by the sight of Glorfindel and Gimli who were approaching with the target board borne between them until they set it down before the throng. Astonished, the company stared at the purple arrow where it had singularly, and perfectly, struck the bull's-eye. The green arrow had instead pierced the perimeter of the bull's-eye. When it sank in that Melénya had won, the elves from Lothlórien cheered merrily. Melénya, herself, was shocked by her perfect shot. Nevertheless, she could not shake her suspicion that the prince had favored her with this triumph by shooting sufficiently astray to miss the center of the bull's-eye. His dodgy reaction had revealed that much. He had congratulated her, conceded her an excellent archer, all without holding her gaze –something that was uncommon to their usual interactions.

Within the hour, the festive company was again congregated under the canopies for a light dinner. When all was satiated, the servants came forward to refill the wine cups. At the head of the gathering, Aragorn arose to toast his guests:

"Friends, as with all such joyful occasions, the season of our merry making is at an end," he said. "Tomorrow we ride to Rohan to honor the fallen –and thereafter, to pursue the path that we each have chosen. But tonight, the House of Telcontar would like to honor you. In memory of Elfstone and Evenstar, in your rooms you will find a small token of Minas Tirith." He took his cup and raised it and the assembly followed suit. "May health and good fortune rest with you always!"

Thereafter, most of the guests began to retire to their rooms to prepare for the early morning journey. When Frodo and Sam entered their rooms, there was a neat bundle resting on each of their beds. Unraveling them, they were both cheered by their handsome contents. The most pleasing gift was that of a cloak wroth from a rich black fabric upon which was woven the symbol of the White Tree in exquisite white gems. These were the striking handiwork of Arwen and Lady Galadriel, who had both thought the cloaks a gift befitting the brave ring bearers who had suffered so dearly in their life-changing quest to destroy the dreadful ring of power.


	8. Lady Rien

At the time of the picnic in Minas Tirith, around early afternoon, a company of knights traveling under the king's banner was scouring the land of Anórien. Their mission had lasted two months during which they had sought to restore order to that once beleaguered land and destroy any lingering remnant of the enemy. Much had been destroyed by the war; landowners had their own share of trouble in trying to remedy the ruin left by raiders, who had burnt much of their fields and crops, leaving the earth scarred and barren. Where time and duty permitted it, these noblemen were aided by the knights, who lent their strength and labor to help restore what they could of their properties.

The company's campaign completed, it now made it way south out of North Anórien to join the king's host upon the morrow; some indeed would accompany their liege lord to the land of Rohan, but others would continue west to fortify and secure the western borders against the king's coming. Among these five and seventy men were three noblemen who were captains over captains. These had sworn their fealty to the king and pledged the allegiance of their knights and household to the king's service. Over these, the king had appointed his own captain, who was just lately returned from the wedding celebrations in Minas Tirith.

In the vanguard of this company rode Lord Alcarin of Minas Tirith. He was a proud, handsome, dark haired lord of eight and twenty years, who was captain over one score knights that were the first defense for their company. Unlike those under his command, his noble, black palfrey was adorned with an exquisite, black footcloth embroidered around the edges with silver; in its center was a jeweled emblem of the White Tree. As to the man himself, he was dressed in chain mail over which he wore a silver breastplate. His vambraces, gauntlets, pauldrons and foot plates were also wrought from silver. Near his side, his Squire rode upon a black pony carrying his sword, battle-axe and helm.

As he rode, his thoughts were consumed by an event that he had witnessed earlier. They had happened upon a nobleman who had been evicting a tenant from his land for failure to pay his rents. As it was a private matter, and he knew in his heart that he in the lord's stead might not have acted much differently, there was little that they could have done, except to restrain the nobleman's zeal to whip the unyielding tenant into submission. The times had been hard upon all, both rich and poor. But with the king's return, there was the promise of stability now that their bitterest foe had been vanquished and his servants subdued and scattered. At last the seeds of prosperity could begin its work.

"My lord, up ahead," called one of his knights.

Alcarin had seen it too. They had descried two solitary unmanned horses some distance away near a spot of wood. As they eased their horses into a trot, Alcarin reminded his knights to be vigilant; they did not yet know the circumstance and they could not risk the hurt of an ambuscade if this was in fact a ruse. The times were not yet so changed that there was nothing to fear from wicked men. When they were nigh upon the wood, they halted. Five knights dismounted and began to survey the vicinity while another three crept up to the saddled horses. Still, there were no sign of their riders.

"We shall have a look in the wood, my lord," yelled one of the knights, grasping his unsheathed sword more firmly.

"Very well, but keep your wits about you."

Before the knights could act on this course, a faint groan was barely heard above the intermittent neighing of one of the rider-less mules. By one accord, the knights who were foremost in the company grew silent and mutedly beckoned to their comrades to hold their tongue. The moan was heard again, but no man could determine from whence it came. It was so faint upon the blustering wind that it was some time before they were able to ascertain its direction.

Alcarin was sitting impatiently in his saddle when the cry came. The search had ended. Hurriedly, he dismounted his palfrey and thrust his way through the tall, tangled grass. As he drew near, the pungent smell of blood assaulted his senses. "Control yourself man!" rebuked he as one of his youngest and most callow knights, weakened by what he saw, heaved into the grass. In truth, he himself fought valiantly against a mounting desire to cover his nose. With all his battle experience, one thing he could not yet conquer was the repugnance that he felt when assaulted with the rusty smell of blood that over time had become to him like a harbinger of death, which was very likely in this case because it was everywhere. It was soaked thickly in the grass and coated the sole of his boots. There was a barely conscious, pale man lying prostrate in the grass with the entire front of his green surcoat heavily soaked with blood. Alcarin knelt down and began to attend to him. He removed the man's belt and carefully began to cut open his surcoat and undershirt with his sharp dagger. The wound thus exposed to his view, he immediately saw a deep, nasty wound from which the blood still flowed freely, though part of it was already encrusted with dried blood.

Straightway, he removed his gauntlets and bellowed to his Squire to bring his waterskin and a clean shirt from his gear, which he ordered him to tear into a strip. To reduce the risk of infecting the wound, he used the man's own shirt as a barrier and pressed his hand urgently upon the wound to stem the flow of blood. In his severely weakened state, the man groaned; indeed Alcarin had hoped to gain some knowledge of what had passed from him but the man was held fast in his faintness. As he worked, he looked around desperately, secretly hoping that the second division of the company would not be delayed, but one glance at the rapidly fading man convinced him to send at once to fetch the Chief Captain. "Quick man!" he shouted, when the knight who had volunteered for the task was even yet dismounted.

When the chief captain arrived, in a trice he discerned the gravity of the situation and knelt to minister to the tragic stranger. With great care, he removed the tightly wounded cloth that Alcarin had used in his attempt to restrain the flow of blood. "Has he regained himself at all?" asked he as he somberly examined the deep wound.

"No, my lord," answered Alcarin, who watched as his grim faced captain worked, instructing him accordingly where it was necessary.

"It is just as well that he' has fainted," said the Chief Captain as he removed a needle from his pouch and begun skillfully to sew the wound after he had done his best to clean it. "I have done very little that can save this man's life," he morbidly declared when he was finished with the work. "He has lost too much blood. Perhaps we might have served him better if we had happened upon him sooner."

As he begun to gather his instruments, another young lord, about the same age as Alcarin, approached. He had arrived some time ago with the third company. "How is he?"

The Chief Captain frowned. "There is little hope left for him."

"The men have searched the surrounding fields," said the comely, young lord, whose name was Anárion. "They found nothing. Whoever has done this evil is long gone —and he has left little trace of himself." He looked closely at the injured man whose dark black hair was touched with vague hints of silver. Slowly, an odd expression began to cloud his visage as he drew nearer and knelt beside him. "I know this man!" He had met him once or twice before with his mother on his own castle grounds and had learned enough of him to know that his estate should be somewhere north of their current location near the verdant hills.

After he had given a slight account of his fleeting acquaintance with the wounded man, the Chief Captain commanded him to take five of his men and ride on ahead to prepare the family to receive their master, as he was certain that the sufferer was not too long for this world. "We shall follow," said he before commanding his men to gently lift the poor soul to the wain that they constantly carried with them for their injured or fallen comrades. Fortunately, until now, it had yet to serve that purpose.

After Anárion's party had traveled some five miles or so, they were greeted with the sight of a vast, limestone-colored castle, with silver domed-roofs and pointy turret-tops, perched atop a lofty hill. From the green valley below, a paved road led up to the castle gate, upon which they now espied a single horseman descending to its foot.

"Hallo there," shouted the stranger, as his well-fed mule lumbered down the rest of the gently-sloped way. He looked warily at the knights who had easily bridged the distance and had halted before him. "Whom do you seek?"

"Our business is with the lord or lady of the castle, if there is such a one," stated Anárion, who was determined to conceal the news of the fallen lord from anyone not belonging to his household.

"I am Lord Súrion," said the dark haired man, who looked to be about five and thirty years old. "I'm distant kin to the family. I have been there for the better part of the day awaiting the lord's return."

"Very well then," replied Anárion hesitantly. "Perhaps your presence would be of some comfort to the family."

"What do you mean?" asked Súrion. "What has happened?"

"It's Lord Tarcil. He has been grievously wounded and is in a bad way."

Súrion's dismay was great. "How —what happened?"

Anárion obliged him with a brief explanation of their discovery, but offered nothing else of his particular knowledge. Súrion, in his turn, related that Lord Tarcil and his steward had quitted the castle early that morning to attend to some business affairs with his tenants. His wife, Lady Riniel, had not heard from him since his departure, but did not think it ill since at times the lord was from home for many hours together.

The conversation at an end, the party hastened up the hill to a thick, sturdy, wooden gate upon which Súrion began to pound impatiently until the old, grey-haired porter, annoyed with the racket, swung open the gates. "Decrepit fool!" warmly ridiculed Súrion as he spurred his horse forward along the paved way into the courtyard. Anárion glanced piteously at the gate-warden, who was grumbling laboriously beneath his breath, before he followed Súrion into the courtyard.

Meanwhile, Súrion had already begun to herald the urgent return of Lord Tarcil, partly jumping from his horse as he flung the reins into the hands of a boy who had come forward to greet them. "Send word at once to fetch the healer," said he to another young lad who was standing nearby.

From the house, a brisk, elderly woman came bursting through the door into the courtyard. She had seen the riders' approach through the tower windows. "My lord!" she cried excitedly. "We did not expect you back again so soon. What –what has happened?" She had been hoping that somehow he would have done them all the favor of taking a good tumble down the cliff. Yes, that would have sufficed.

"Lady Riniel —where is she?" When the elderly woman did not immediately answer, he scoffed, "Are you daft, woman?"

Interrupting, Anárion gently appealed to the woman, whom he soon learned was called Andreth. When he had told her of her master's ill-fortune, withholding only the worse, her eyes had widened with fear. Despite Anárion's deliberate concealment, she had perceived the worst. "I shall go to her at once," muttered she, raising a trembling hand to her lips. "Only, what shall I say?"

Inasmuch that the woman had spoken more to herself, Anárion did not answer. Instead, he casted an anxious eye down the path from whence they had come. "Your master still lives," he abruptly revealed, hoping to get Andreth moving, "but his time is short." A small cry was elicited by this unbridled truth. "You must go and prepare a room to receive him. The boy has already gone to fetch the healer."

"Y—yes. Yes! I understand." She turned half dazedly to climb the stone steps to the castle, almost tripping over her own feet if Anárion had not reached forth and steadied her.

The wain could now be seen coming up the paved way until it entered the arched gate. A few knights from the first company followed with the Chief Captain while the other knights had congregated in the valley below under the leadership of Lord Aratan, a young nobleman who was friend to Alcarin and Anárion. In a short while they planned to continue their journey southward to the great city of Minas Tirith before heading out again for the west lands. The rumbling of the wain wheels upon the cobble-stoned courtyard echoed loudly through the garden before the hackney was brought to a halt before the great door, where four men from the lord's household descended the steps to gently lift him from the wain and carry him into the castle.

While Anárion consulted with Alcarin and their chief captain, the other knights began to talk amongst themselves; there was a certain mystery surrounding this slaying —for they had already given up the lord for dead— that they could not penetrate. "If what he said is true, where is the Steward?" asked Alcarin.

"I've sent for the sheriff of this county," said the Chief Captain. "But, Alcarin, take your men and make another survey of the land, lest perchance another hapless man should lie in need of succor." Súrion, who was standing some distance from them, was pretending not to listen, but the Chief Captain, ever a cautious man, had noticed.

"My lord Captain," greeted an elderly man with a harried expression who forthwith introduced himself as Lord Tarcil's butler. "I engage your patience to rest here a while and take something to eat. The stable boys will see to it that your horses are fed and cared for." The invitation was courteously accepted and the knights proceeded to dismount their horses.

Meanwhile, inside the castle, Andreth had not yet broken the news to her mistress. Instead, she had waited to see to it that Lord Tarcil was properly settled in the sick chamber and that the healer had arrived before setting off for her mistress' day-chamber in the confines of the tower. Now ascending the cool, dim stairs, she walked along the hallways until she came to stand before her mistress' door. She knocked hesitantly and pushed it open when a voice from within bade her to enter.

"Andreth, dear, will you agree with me?" said Lady Riniel, who was sitting in a chair talking to a young girl of seventeen years old, who sat upon a footstool at her feet. This Lady Riniel was the lady of the castle and a woman of very handsome features. She was a woman of two score years with hardly a trace of age upon her. She sat erectly in a cushioned chair with legs and arms of a polished sturdy wood. Her raiment was of a deep-blue silk. The simple jewel that she wore at her throat was an exquisitely crafted heirloom of her mother's house. All of her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck and rolled into a gentle knot. Her daughter, who was somewhat a younger reflection of herself, was no less handsome.

"I know that you've never cared for him, Mama," said the young girl, "but you've never told me why."

"Trust your mama, darling," said Lady Riniel, petting her daughter, whose head was lying lazily upon her lap.

"Andreth, Mama says Lord Súrion is a blackguard," said the young girl, turning her light grey eyes upon her nurse, "but she refuses to tell me why."

"Rien, you must not speak so frankly," Lady Riniel tenderly chastised.

"But Andreth is family."

"Lady Riniel," Andreth nervously interrupted, "begging your pardon, but I bring word of Lord Tarcil."

The mother was carefully arranging her daughter's long, black hair where it had become disarrayed by her fondling. "Yes Andreth? Is the lord come at last?" When Andreth did not immediately answer, but instead cast her eyes upon the floor, the lady began to regard her with growing alarm. Slowly, almost unsteadily, she rose to her feet. "What is it, Andreth?"

"I'm sorry, milady," whispered Andreth, who was almost near tears. "I'm sorry."

"Mama!" exclaimed the young girl, who, by her mother's manner, and Andreth's apparent distress, grew frightened.

"It's alright, darling," said Lady Riniel, gently cupping her daughter's face between her hands and kissing each cheek. "You must stay here. I will go and see to Papa."

"If —if something bad has happened, promise me that you will let me see him," pleaded Rien.

Lady Riniel gathered her daughter's slender frame to her breast and rocked her gently. "I will, my darling. I promise."

Mother and child parted and Lady Riniel went bravely to her husband's bedside. Andreth, who had stayed behind with her young charge, had tried many times to alleviate the trial of their waiting with small conversation, but was forced to give it up, preferring to condole in silence.

"Did you see him, Andreth?" asked Rien after some time had passed. She was sitting in an arched window in one of the towers that overlooked the wide expanse of green turf below.

"Yes, Lady Rien," Andreth quietly admitted, saying nothing more.

Because she feared the truth, Rien asked nothing else. Instead, she turned again to the attractive vista of the mellow sunset that was draped across the pale, blue, western sky, which seemed to almost mock her present fate with its serene beauty and calmness. For two more hours she sat quite still in the window embrasure patiently abiding the time until the call should come. When the candles were brought up, she did not stir from her trancelike state except to ask Andreth if her mother would soon come. Nevertheless, it would take another hour's passing before Lady Riniel re-appeared in the threshold of her day-chamber.

"Papa will be unlike himself," said she as she walked through the candle-lit hallways with her daughter until they halted at the door of her husband's sick chamber. "Do not be distressed. He is very weak." She looked tenderly upon her daughter. "Shall I come in with you?"

Although she was truly afraid of the fate that awaited them beyond the door, Rien declined her mother's offer.

"Be brave, my darling," encouraged Lady Riniel as she hugged her daughter close.

"Oh Mama, will he know me?"

"Rien, you have always been beloved by your papa," said Lady Riniel. "I know he shall know you anywhere." She softly opened the door to reveal a large, curtained bed upon which laid an unmoving figure. "Now, go my dear."

When Rien saw her father so pale and lifeless, her heart sunk despairingly. The healer, who had been sitting near his bed, now withdrew into the darkness. "Papa!" said Rien. He did not stir. A second call aroused him, however, but it took some time before he was able to sensibly focus. His light grey eyes stared at the roof until somewhere in the mist of his thought, Rien's voice penetrated. "Papa," said she again, lightly kissing his bruised hand.

He smiled faintly before his eyes fluttered shut. "Rien," said he in a low, hoarse whisper, before slipping again into the pit of darkness.

"Papa! Papa! You cannot leave us," she pleaded. "Please, Papa!" She clasped his good hand in hers and raised it to her cheek where she held it nestled and bathed in her tears.

Again, he was aroused from his dark slumber by the sound of her voice. He smiled feebly and wearily as he turned his head to see her more clearly where she knelt at his bedside. Through her swift-flowing tears, she kissed his hand profusely before he was taken once more into the depths of blackness. For a full hour, Rien continued to kneel at his bedside, giving full vent to her feelings of sorrow. "Papa, how shall we go on without you?"

A tear slid from her father's eye unto his pillow. He had been awake for some time struggling against the darkness that threatened to engulf his mind; there was so very little that he remembered, but he knew her face. "Kiss…" was all he was able to say before breaking off wearily.

Rien understood him perfectly. Her poor, little chaste heart was breaking as she rose from her tender knees to press her lips softly to his forehead. Her tears fell on his brow and became mingled with his. When she eased away from him, she saw that his eyes were partly opened and staring. Resting her head upon his chest, she began to weep softly. He was gone. Her papa was gone.

"Rien, dearest, come away," implored Lady Riniel, who had quietly entered the room with a kerchief clenched in her right hand, which rested upon her breast. Her own heart was breaking, but for her daughter's sake she had to be strong.

"I cannot leave him," cried Rien. "Dear Papa!" Her mother came to the bed and gently raised her. Although their precious one was beyond the help of this world, the healer still had ministrations to perform to ease the memory for the dear ones that had been left behind.

Below floors, the Chief Captain and his men had begun to feel the uneasiness of their intrusion. There was a heavy mantle of grief upon the household that was felt by all. "Lord Anárion, how far did you say it was to your castle?"

"Not three leagues, Sir."

"Ready the men to depart," the Chief Captain commanded. "We have tarried here too long. We must allow this house to mourn in peace." In his usual brooding way, he sunk back into his own unsettling thoughts. Lord Súrion, who had left the castle sometime ago, dominated them.

When their horses had been brought forth from the stables, the riders alighted and made ready to depart. It was still partly light outside but the darkness would fall before the end of their journey. Anárion, who was still within the manor conveying their gratitude to the mistress of the castle through her servant, Andreth, now told her, "I hope, at least, that the sheriff can make more sense of this." He glanced up at the darkened stairway where death lingered ominously. "Now, have your man secure the gate after us." He bowed solemnly. "I bid you good evening."


	9. The Road to Rohan

On July 19, 3019 of the Third Age, at first light, a great and fair company was gathered in the central square in Minas Tirith awaiting the Kings of Gondor and Rohan who had gone to the tombs in Path Dinen to prepare the great wain that was to bear King Théoden away to his homeland. The late king was laid upon a golden bier, which was then reverently placed upon the wain with the riders of Rohan set about it and his esteemed banner set before it. Merry, as his distinguished Esquire, was to ride with him to keep his arms until their journey ended in the land of Rohan.

When all was ready, and the Herald had published the news of King Théoden's departing abroad, the Gondorians that filled the town's square bowed their heads deferentially, extolling the venerable deeds of King Théoden in their hearts; they could not soon forget how he had succored them in their time of greatest need. From the white tower of Ecthelion, the majestic timbre of Gondor's trumpets resounded through the clear, crisp morning air as the riders proceeded in an orderly fashion through the great gate onto the dew laden fields of Pelennor. At King Elessar's side rode Frodo and Sam; with them also went Gandalf astride his noble steed, Shadowfax. A little behind rode Gimli and Legolas on Arod while Pippin rode in the ranks of Gondor's knights. Queen Evenstar, Melénya, Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, and all of their elven folk followed in the rear with those knights that followed in the tail of the company. The Princes of Dol Amroth and of Ithilien were also among the host and with them went many captains and knights. It is said that never before had any king of the Mark had such company upon the road as those that went with Théoden to the land of his home.

As they rode, King Elessar pointed out ancient sights of interest to Frodo and Sam who were both eager-spirited to embark upon this new journey that was destined to take them back to their beloved Shire and all the fond attachments that they had left behind. Behind with the Elven folk, as was his wont, Prince Imrahil was engaged in conversation with Elrond, Galadriel, and Celeborn. Faramir, on the other hand, rode alongside Queen Evenstar and Melénya partaking in a light, agreeable dialogue before Legolas and Gimli joined them and began to speak of the journey westward, which eventually led to Legolas' narrative about the Huorns and the important role that they had played in the latter end of the Battle for Helms Deep by destroying the last remnant of Saruman's Uruk-hai.

"That is strange," said Melénya thoughtfully. "I've heard of that ancient power that sleeps within the Forest of Fangorn, but never of these Huorns. Yet, the Forest lies on the border of Lórien."

"Among our people, it is said that many years ago, in a different age of the world, the awakening of the trees began with the Elves," said Arwen. "There is one there whom we call the Eldest. I would dearly love to meet him one day." She glanced at Legolas. "I almost envy you your good fortune, Legolas."

"Talking trees," muttered Gimli grumpily.

"Cheer up, Gimli," said Legolas. "A few days hence we shall be off to the Glittering Caves and then to Fangorn to honor our pact." The dwarf mumbled a disgruntled remark under his breath prompting Legolas to turn to his companions saying, "I'm afraid Gimli does not share our enthusiasm about the forest."

"What a pity!" smiled Arwen, who looked kindly upon Gimli. "Our journey northward ends at Edoras," she continued, implying herself and Melénya, "but mayhap one day soon we might yet walk beneath the shadows of that great forest."

"When you do, we hope to accompany you," said Legolas, looking briefly at Melénya, who was inwardly pleased by this open avowal. She had grown quite fond of his company since their meeting in Minas Tirith and had secretly feared that his return to Mirkwood would be permanent.

As to the prince, for a long time he furtively observed her; he could not quite understand what it was about her that had captivated him so easily, for he had known many of like beauty and others who were still fairer, yet none had ever affected him in this manner or to this degree. As she rode beside him, unaware of his scrutiny, her long, dark brown hair blew in the gentle breeze, stirring within him an acute sense of pleasure that warned him that in some ways he was already enamored with her.

But then he thought of Vana, his childhood friend of countless years, most loyal and worthiest of friends, dearest and gentlest of hearts, and his feelings became befuddled. He had thought of her often. He had carried the tender memory of their parting every step of his journey. She had been that light that had cheered him in the darkest hours of his journey. Still, he could not yet define what his feelings were towards her.

"I, myself, would like one day to meet these Ents of whom you speak so favorably, Legolas," said Faramir, breaking into the prince's thoughts. "But, alas, it will have to wait. There's so much to be done in Ithilien and all the more speedily now." His last statement, which was declared evasively, did not elude the keen perception of his listeners but they said nothing.

"When next we are all at leisure," said Arwen, "perhaps we can arrange an outing from Edoras. I shall mention it to the king."

Around midday, the host halted to refresh themselves. Within the hour, it set forth again hoping to gain a good distance into East Anórien before dusk fell. When they were nigh upon the Grey Wood, drums beats began to resonate from the surrounding hills though from whence they came none of the company saw. By and by, King Elessar commanded the trumpets to be blown and his heralds declared his decision to bestow the Forest of Druadan to Ghan-buri-Ghan and his folk to be theirs forever. In answer to this proclamation, the drums resumed their rhythm, signifying to the king that their masters had accepted his gift.

Thenceforth, the company journeyed onward until the hour of sunset. They had met several eastbound travelers along the way who had given them some tiding of the western road, including the sighting of a large number of Gondor's knights who were migrating west. Before darkness fell, they established camp and were considerably cheered when provided with water to remove the toils of that day's journey.

Later that evening, after all had eaten, several lingered still around the campfire. Galadriel and Celeborn had excused themselves to embark on a short evening stroll shadowed by a choice few of the Galadhrim; Gandalf, Elrond, and Prince Imrahil still sat at the makeshift, wooden table speaking on varied subjects that were as infinite as Prince Imrahil's hunger for more knowledge. Those seated around the campfire listened as Elrohir told stories of his peregrinations with Elladan and the Northern Dúnedain, much of which his sister felt was embellished to excite the interest of his solicitors, who were mainly Merry and Pippin.

As the night wore on, all had retired to their tents, except Aragorn, Eomer, Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas, and Gimli, who were debating their plans to destroy the Orc remnant that remained after the fall of the Barad-dûr. From the eastbound travelers, they had learnt that there were rumors of trouble in the north and west lands. Reports of Orc raids in remote villages were few but nevertheless troubling and there were several sightings of dispersed bands of Orcs north of Isengard and beyond. As a prudent measure, the kings had increased the number of the guards that would stand watch o'er their camp throughout the night. Elladan and Elrohir, who had never yet forgotten the torment that their mother had suffered at the hands of these vile creatures, had much to say on the subject, bearing as they did an immense hatred for these fiends that ever provoked them to hunt them and press them to their deaths.

Inside Elrond's tent, Arwen was with her father. She had her head lovingly pillowed upon his shoulder as they sat side by side. Her eyes were closed as she listened to his calm voice read an excerpt from a book that she had brought on her journey. Her unshod feet were elevated and resting in a chair that she had set before them. Her right arm was tenderly intertwined with his free hand and her left hand was clasped upon his forearm. Presently, the fondest wish of her heart was to keep him near her, as much as it was in her power to do, until their day of separation. She loved him so very dearly.

Elrond, when he was at last finished with his reading, gently removed his hand from his daughter's grasp and laid it upon her shoulders to draw her close. He nestled his cheek against the crown of her head and the confidences that were so customary between them began to pass.


	10. Lady Arien

On the morning of the host's departure from Minas Tirith, a young girl of seventeen years old stood with her father watching the large procession as it left the central square. When all the travelers had departed through the gates, they made their way back up to their house in the sixth level of the City. There, they parted ways to attend to their separate duties until midday when they would reunite for the noon day meal.

At birth, this young maiden was given the name Arien, which namesake was due to her paternal grandmother who had passed away some fifteen years before when Arien was just an infant. In the seventeen years of her life, all but one had been spent under the tutelage of her mother who had passed away a year ago after finally succumbing to the ravishes of her long illness, bequeathing Arien's care solely to the guiding hand of her father. Her brother, who was some ten years her senior, was a man in his own right and had every freedom to live and act however he pleased with little interference from their father. These were the persons who comprised her little family and the people who were dearest to her in the world.

That morning, after she had returned to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, a great change had been wrought in her spirit. The lightness that had carried her cheerfully to the Square to farewell the king's host was replaced by an unsettled, almost harried temperament. As she sat in her room, unable to apply her mind seriously to any task, her thoughts revisited the root of her disquiet.

It had been her father's idea to descend into the Square at that unusual hour to see what they could of the Elves of the north countries. As she had also cherished a desire to see the Elves this one last time, she had not resisted the scheme and as luck would have it, was not disappointed. Since her father knew the Steward of Gondor, he had done them the honor of introducing them to Queen Evenstar and her family, and by that success alone, she had deemed the early morning excursion a worthwhile exertion despite the already forgotten upbraiding that she had given her maid when she had come to rouse her during the pitch black hours of the morning.

It was during the time when she was speaking amiably with Melénya, -whom in that brief interview she was already disposed to like- that her mood grew altered. In the throng that was assembled in the Square, she was astonished to see a face that had haunted her since the time of her mother's passing. Even now her face grew flushed when she recollected that fateful afternoon. Almost immediately, she began to repent of her coming until fate stepped in to grant her a way of escape:

"Are you unwell?" asked Melénya.

"Yes…yes, a little," she replied faint-heartedly. "I should go. It was a pleasure, Lady Melénya." She bowed and turned to leave but not before overhearing Lady Melénya words to Queen Evenstar. "When we return to the City, we should have her visit."

In her agitated state of mind, Arien could not recall where it was that she had last seen her father and was almost tempted to return to their house without him. Her better feeling prevailed however, and she decided instead to remove to the seclusion of a nearby courtyard where several elderly ladies sat on wooden benches that were arranged on the grassy beds interwoven between the paved walkways, reminiscing about similar grand events that they had seen in the city since the days of their youth. While she walked along the sheltered corridors that were adjoined to the house, deaf to the good matrons' narrative exchanges, she began to berate herself for her foolish lack of foresight. Why did she come? She should have known the risk. A fair degree of shame marked her complexion when she again remembered that afternoon of yesteryear.

"Ah…Mother, there you are," shouted a young man who had just rushed through the short arched entrance that issued from the public square. From his neck down, he was dressed in the silver armor that was peculiar to Gondor's knights and under his right arm he carried his silver-winged helm. "We're off now…" The rest of his words were lost on Arien whose footsteps had unconsciously brought her to the entrance through which the young knight had emerged where a glint of silver now caught her eye before a dark familiar shadow fell full upon her, causing her to halt rigidly in her place.

They were both taken in complete surprise before his cold, stiff nod reminded her of his hearty contempt. Muttering an excuse that was barely comprehensible, she slipped silently from the courtyard as she heard the young knight say, "Yes, here he is Mother. Lord Anárion."

It had pierced her heart so to apprehend that his disdain for her had not lessened with their long estrangement. No one had ever regarded her with such bitter disgust. As a rule, all who had ever known her was destined to love and adore her and Lord Anárion had been no exception. He had begun as easily as the others until a year ago when a particular tiding had reached him.

Presently, sitting in her window seat, looking out over the city below, she unconsciously stroked a simple, elegant, silver ring that hung from her necklace. The innocence in her lovely face was heightened by her deeply troubled reflections. When she could not abide her solitude any longer, she adorned her slippers and went below floors to her father's Study where he was within disputing on some matter of economy with his Steward. Sometime after, when the matter was settled and the Steward was gone, her father sat down to consider the papers on the table before him. He soon gave it up, however, after his daughter's sighs and restlessness persisted in distracting his meditations. "What is it, dear?" he finally asked as he came around to join her on a long chair. "What has upset you?"

Her father was a kindly old man, whose plenteous white hair paralleled the truth of his years; he was in his ninety-eighth year but still a very lively man. He had married their mother when he was almost seventy years old and she was just a young girl of one score years. Whereas her father had married for love, her mother had married for fortune and had spent her years exhorting her children to accomplish the same. "If you don't mind, Father, I do not wish to speak of it."

"Well! Well, yes, of course. If you do not wish to speak of it, then I must drop it." He patted her hand. "There! It's already forgotten. You can be easy, my dear." He made to get up then sat back down directly. "Forgive me, dear, for meddling, but I think you should know that I saw Lord Anárion in the Square this morning." When she did not forbid his speech, he continued. "We spoke briefly, but the thing that puzzles me is that he made no mention of his intention to send for you. Now, I do not repent giving my consent to your early marriage, but I cannot help thinking that I have failed you in another way." When she began to protest her father cut her short. "No, no, you must hear me out. Before your mother's passing, I had known for some that it was her desire to see you married well and comfortably settled before she passed away and I daresay she has achieved it. Nevertheless, I should have been more mindful of the course she had decided upon. I see now that some ill has come of it." A deep frown marked his dark visage. "You were too young, Arien…only sixteen and already bound to another for life. I should have put an end to your mother's schemes before any of it had begun."

_War is upon us, my little pet. These are the days when wives lay down at nights bounded to another and arise upon the morrow widowed and free. _

In the wake of her father's clean-breasted declaration, these dreadful words of her late mother assailed Arien's thoughts. They made her shudder just as much as they had done then.

"Now, about Lord Anárion, I will write to him if another six months go by and he has not made his intentions clear. The War, as a reason, can no longer stand and indeed could not stand when we were removed to his castle in Anórien and he still did not show himself. I cannot continue to turn a blind eye to his utter disregard for you." Arien colored. "I won't deny that I am gravely disappointed with him. He's a good man, but I expected better from him."

"Do not judge him too harshly, Father. I...I bare most of the blame." If her father only knew, she could not imagine what he would think of her. Only her mother, who could not speak from the grave, knew the cause and was indeed deeply connected with it. But her father, her good kind father, when she saw the look of inquiry in his eyes, she was seized with an acute sense of dread. "I cannot speak of it, Father," she half pleaded. "Please do not press me on it."

There was a hint of fear in her father's eyes when his pondering thoughts touched very nearly to the truth; it caused him to turn away ashamed. There was no doubt in his mind that this was in some way his wife's doing. She had been a noblewoman whose few good qualities had been continually overshadowed by her mean understanding. Reaching back into the late generations of her family, a calamity had occurred in her great grandmother's time that had lived emphatically in her memory and had helped to shape her into the shrewd pitiless woman that she had been. There had been many times when she had tried his patience bitterly; times when she would accuse him of squandering their son's inheritance simply because he had given to their servants generously. Yet, despite these quarrels and absurdities that had plagued their married life, he had loved her and loved her well. Too well, perhaps, when he considered the free hand that he had allowed her in instructing their children in their present way of error.

Admittedly, he did not fear as much for his son as he did for his daughter. Alcarin was prideful to a faulty degree, but so were many young men of his rank and stature. He also trusted that with time and a good wife, his son's blemish would eventually soften. His daughter, on the other hand, had often demonstrated a mercenary streak in her character that was quite reminiscent of her mother. In vain he had hoped that his wife's influence upon their child would have slackened with her passing, but in these latter times, he had too often seen the same vein of offense in his daughter and indeed in those with whom she associated. Notwithstanding, he was still convinced that underneath it all, the hearts of his children were essentially good.

The bell had rung to announce a visitor for Arien. When she went to the sitting room, a handsome woman of at least forty years came forward to greet her and kiss her cheeks affectionately. "How are you, my dear?" she asked.

"I am well," said Arien, gesturing towards a chair where they both sat down. "It really is a pleasure to see you, Lady Erendi. It's been such a long time."

"I've told you before to call me, Mother," she corrected, "or anything else that you may wish to call me that is suitable between mother and daughter." Arien blushed. It was such an oddity to be speaking on amicable terms with her husband's mother when not _a single word of real meaning_ had passed between her and her husband for an entire year now. Sure, every now and then he had included a trite note with her monthly allowance, but there was never anything of substance to improve their relation or bridge their span of difference. "I am aware that there's a rift between you and my son, but I'd like you to know that it does not hinder my affection for you. Whatever it is that separates you is your own private affair. I do not take any side."

Impulsively, Arien drew near and kissed her cheek. "Thank you for saying that."

"Now, this is for you," said Lady Erendi, taking a neat bundle from a nearby table and pressing it into Arien's hand. "When I saw it, I thought of you." Arien carefully opened the wrapping to reveal a dark blue silk cloth that was woven with an extraordinary pattern. "I purchased it from one of the traders who were passing through Anórien from the East."

Arien thanked Lady Erendi several times before she realized that there was a sealed note that had fallen to the ground near her feet. "What is this?" Her heartbeat quickened when she picked it up and recognized the bold handwriting that had inscribed her name upon the note's face.

"Oh! Dear me! I had quite forgotten about Anárion's note."

"No matter! There's no harm done." Arien hastily slipped the note into the hidden folds of her dress. "Shall you join us for lunch, Lady…Mother?"

"Thank you, dear, but I must decline. I have another engagement elsewhere. Perhaps another time will suit us both." Shortly after that, she rose to leave. "By the bye, how does your brother get on?"

"My brother is well. Nowadays, he's very often from home. We'll soon be strangers if we're not careful."

"I had hoped to hear a more felicitous report that tended towards…shall we say a more blissful end," Lady Erendi pointedly intimated.

"Oh!" Arien had understood her perfectly. It was no secret to her that her brother's affairs were commonly discussed among their circle being yet unattached and eligible. "Well, I cannot really speak to my brother's designs, but I trust that he will declare himself soon, if that is his intention."

"Lady Annawen is a sweet girl," said Lady Erendi. "I hope very much that your brother appreciates that. She has everything to recommend her to any suitable match."

"I'm certain that he's aware of that," smiled Arien, who added for good measure, "He would have to be a fool indeed to think otherwise."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Lady Erendi, who appeared eminently satisfied. There was no doubt in Arien's mind that Lady Erendi had allied herself with Lady Annawen's mother who was more determined than anyone else to see the match established. "Now, tell me, how is your father?"

"Father is well. He has his slow days occasionally but overall, he's been well."

"You must bring him to the castle soon. He'll get plenty of fresh air and exercise. Since Anárion has been away these past two months, there has been a lot to oversee, but when he returns, I will have ample free time to entertain your father."

"You have been much alone then?"

"Yes, and I'll be alone for another month or so until he returns from Rohan or you decide to join me, my dear."

Arien had lived five lonely days in that Castle. Soon after she was married, she had been summoned from there to her mother's deathbed in Minas Tirith. Her recollections of that enchanting place were tearful, solemn ones. She had been an unhappy bride there, which had not been entirely her fault. The same day that they had arrived at the estate, Anárion had quitted it in the afternoon to go scouting with his knights. He had only stayed long enough to see to it that she was comfortably settled in her new home.

After Lady Erendi left, Arien went to her bedchamber to read her husband's note, which apprised her of his present course. He expected to be from home for another month or perhaps two, depending on the security of the west land of Anórien. His main purpose in writing was to invite her to return to the Castle in Anórien, if she so chose. And if she did, she was encouraged to send word to his butler at the time of her choosing to make the necessary arrangements for her removal to Anórien.

After she had read through the note several times, Arien sat silently pondering its contents. In his communication, she could not discern the slightest trace of feeling. It was obvious to her that he did care either way about her choice. Truly, it was such a bad business. In her heart she was convinced that it would have been far easier to endure the stigma of an annulment than to persist with this marital farce that had so far rendered them both unhappy people. From the very first, their marriage was never consummated and by the laws of their country, they had that right of dissolution. Yet, deep down, she knew that to him an annulment would be just as reprehensible as a stain on his noble character. She knew it very well. This was her life's burden to bear and the time had come for her to honor her duty. She would go to him.


	11. The Lingering Shadow

While the Kings and their host progressed steadily through the meadows and pastures of Anórien, a company of Gondor's knights traveled the west road to secure their way until it drew nigh unto the border of the land where the East Fold of Rohan commanded the outlying vista. Thitherward, some would continue with the king's host to Edoras while a remnant would remain to search out the land and insure its protection before the king's return.

Without incident, after eight days the company had arrived in close propinquity of the border, which resided in the shadow of the eastern foot of the White Mountains. In its ranks rode the noble lords Alcarin and Aratan under the authority of King Elessar's appointed Chief Captain. These were they who had rendered their service to the ill-fated Lord Tarcil by restoring him to the bosom of his family.

One evening, not two days after they were encamped in West Anórien, a certain event came to pass. As the three lords sat in the Chief Captain's tent disputing their course for the days to come, from a distance, a strange rider approached their camp. "You're uneasy, my lord," said Alcarin, turning from a map that was spread upon a table upon which several points of interest were singled out.

"Yes," said the Chief Captain, thoughtfully tapping the map with his forefinger. "As much as you're tempted to dismiss them, these rumors can't all be baseless."

"Yet, since coming to these parts we have not seen the slightest stir of trouble," said Aratan.

"And the scouts have not seen anything unusual in their regular reconnaissance," added Alcarin.

"Nevertheless, we should not take it for granted that all is as it appears," cautioned the Chief Captain.

"Hm! This reminds me of a time not so long ago," said Alcarin, "before the king returned and the war was won. Remember Aratan? We had a rough time of it. A day never failed to bring an evil report of some kind. Before long, we found that we had squandered a fair amount of our time pursuing unprofitable reports."

"Such fond memories," said Aratan with a trace of bitterness.

"To prevent this, we had to begin discerning truth from idle rumor," continued Alcarin. "We made a few mistakes, but not too grievous though."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Aratan, who appeared positively offended by what Alcarin had said. "How easily we forget our fallen comrades."

"I merely meant that considering the mess that we made of the situation back then, we were fortunate to have lost such few men. When we should have been off fortifying battle companies, we were sent on another fool's errand."

"That fellow today seemed genuinely convinced that there are Orcs in this area," said Aratan, feeling a little ashamed of his peevish remarks.

"The peasant?"

"I know that's all you are capable of seeing, Alcarin," berated Aratan, "but I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful workmanship on a sword's hilt."

"Probably filched from some heedless nobleman caught at unawares in these parts," shrugged Alcarin carelessly.

"You really are an absurd fellow!" replied Aratan matter-of-factly. "Do you really think so poorly of those who are without fortune?"

"That's where you're wrong, my friend. A good lineage far exceeds fortune in my estimation, although I suppose the latter is not to be despised."

"I thought so," laughed Aratan despite his obvious impatience with his friend. "No man can deny the latter's advantage. But Alcarin, if you were open to it, I think you would find that a lot of these folks are honest, hardworking men." He turned to the Chief Captain. "Upon my word, I do declare that Alcarin has pride enough for both you and I, and I daresay all of Gondor."

"Show me your sword, Sir," said the Chief Captain to Alcarin, who acquiesced with a circumspect brow. He took the sword, examined the blade, turned it over repeatedly in his calloused hands, and passed it back to Alcarin. "It's a fine sword…worthy of the skill of the one who wields it." He turned his grave eyes upon Aratan. "You, Sir, did well to recognize that there was more to this peasant than what was apparent. In years past, when the Elves still dealt with men, his house must have possessed their favor for by no other skill was that sword wrought."

"My lord, Sir," hailed a guard, who stood at the entrance of the Chief Captain's tent. "There's a young lad from the village yonder who has asked to see you. He claims he has an urgent message."

"Let him enter," said the Chief Captain. At the door, a few words passed between the guard and another before a lad of not more than twelve years was hustled into the tent. He had a sweat-stained scroll clutched tightly within his dirty palm. "What's your name?" asked the Chief Captain as he solemnly regarded the boy, who had a small, goodly sword attached to his side.

"Vlamir, Sir," replied he boldly after plucking up his courage. He did not so much like the sternness of the Chief Captain's face or the gravity of his eyes. "Please Sir, read my letter. At dusk, our village was attacked." With an unsteady hand, he held out the soiled parchment and the Chief Captain took it, opened it directly, and began to read it aloud.

_Noble Sirs,_

_I send you Vlamir with the hope that you will give diligent ear to our plea. About the hour of supper this eve, the great gate of our village was breached by Orcs. We have precious few men who are familiar with the way of the sword that even now undertake to defend us; still, we are severely outnumbered. The Valar speed your haste to our aid and preservation or else we shall surely perish ere your deliverance. To that end, I have sent thee a map, formed by my own hand that will verily guide you safely to a secret path. _

_Though I am but a woman, I implore you, Sir Knights, to trust to its exactness. _

Here Alcarin and Aratan looked at each other, apparently diverted by the implied accusation that was laid to their charge.

_If I have judged you in error, I beg your pardon, as I have little cause in my own experience to harbor any conclusion to the contrary. Again, I beseech your swiftness before all is lost. _

_We stand in urgent need of your valorous swords._

_Nessa _

When the Chief Captain finished, Vlamir began to fret. "Please, Sir, you must hurry."

"Captain, Sir," shouted a guard who stood panting at the tent's door. "The village burns in the distance."

Straightway, the lords were roused to action. "Alcarin, gather the men for battle," commanded the Chief Captain as he unrolled the map that the boy had given to him. He was momentarily astonished by the details portrayed by the illustrator's cunning hand; notwithstanding, uneven traces here and there betrayed her fear to him. "Aratan, have a look at this," said he, as his Squire began to cloth him in his armor.

"Tis very clever," said Aratan, after he had studied the map. The damsel had drawn what seemed to be a thorough sketch of the village, which, among other particulars, included measurements of distances in and around their habitation. "Is this very like it?" asked he, turning to the boy who was sulking in an impatient attitude.

Without glancing at the map that Aratan held out to him, the boy proudly stated, "There is none like my mistress. She's the cleverest person I know."

Aratan smiled subtly. "Then we must trust completely to its true guide."

In the course of battle preparations, it was quickly decided that Alcarin and Aratan would lead a greater number of the men through the main gate, while the Chief Captain, and a lesser number of knights, would enter through the hidden way. By the time they sallied forth, small flickering lights were visible in the distance against the black firmament, which was rendered bleaker still by the shadow cast by Halifirien, the mountain of the Firien Wood. At length, as the company drew nearer, they began to descry thick plumes of smoke ascending into the heavens that were afterwards swallowed up in its gloom. Close outside the perimeter of the village, Alcarin, Aratan and their knights separated from the Chief Captain's company, which went along a concealed path on the west side of the decaying stone wall that despite this still formed a formidable defense around the village.

The Chief Captain and his men were led along by Vlamir until they came to a body of water that was an outshoot of the Mering Stream, which was some distance away to the left. In the moonless night, the horses were somewhat opposed to crossing the water, but as their riders would brook no dissension, a soft wading sound soon caressed the strained evening air. When they had gained the other side, Vlamir led them over a short expanse of green turf and into the wood where he was to remain with the horses. After the men had fetched their weapons, a medley of battle-axes, spears, cross bows and long bows, they assembled before the Chief Captain, who was to lead their ingress into the burning village.

Having committed the map's details to his memory, the Chief Captain began to plough his way through the thick, tangled, sometimes thorny, shrubbery until they came to a gap in the wall, which was shielded on the other side by a healthy overgrowth of thorny bushes. With jaunty heckles tossed within their circle, the knights withstood their way through until they were at last within the wall. Feeling somewhat ill-used by the thorny bushes, these sentiments were soon forgotten when the distant chaos of battle magnified in their ears; the loud crackle of fire, occasionally surmounted by a horrendous shriek or cry, pervaded the tumultuous air. It was obvious that the villagers were still miraculously mounting a defense.

The sudden outbreak of a wild uproar in a nearby holding pen galvanized the company's attention. A few quick gestures were made before two knights crept stealthily up to the wooden fence through which they espied the deformed silhouettes of several Orcs that were making ill sport of the frenzied herd.

"How many?" the Chief Captain asked upon joining the two knights. With some trouble, he bent his tall stature into a crouching position.

"Three Sir," replied the foremost knight, who was riled by the strangled bleating of a sheep that sounded as though it was being hacked to death.

"And you, Selmir?"

"I count three also."

"Good! Let's make a good work of it and let our arrows find their prey. We must retain our advantage lest all of the damsel's efforts should come to naught."

"Aye, my lord Captain, but this blackness is troublesome," lamented Selmir as he dauntingly withdrew an arrow from his quiver.

Quietly, the knights armed their bows and bent their right arms at ear level. With the darkness heavily against them, they held this position for a long time, carefully marking their lively prey. "Has every man his mark?" whispered the Chief Captain, who had his left eye closed to augment his vision. The two knights affirmed their readiness. "Release!" In a single assault, the arrows sped through the air penetrating the throats of their targets. The resulting sharp, gurgled wails were soon stamped out by the reckless furor of the excited cattle.

After the work was finished, the knights withdrew into the mantle of the undisturbed wood and endured apprehensively for any sign of discovery. At that moment, however, a loud, thrilling sound, which in battles past had often moved men's hearts to fear, pierced the evening air. From the front gate, the sound of the battle-horn was soon succeeded by the thunderous clamor of horse hooves where Alcarin, Aratan and their knights, in an indomitable onslaught, invaded the ruined east gate of the village. The scenery upon their entrance strongly resembled that of the roughly sketched map. Off to the left, not twenty paces away, stood a stone belfry, which no doubt had warned the villagers of the imminent raid. Before them was a stone paved square with a simple water fountain in its midst. Round about it were several close homes that were ablaze and smothered in black smoke. There were two main paved ways that led from this square to the inward parts of the village, where, according to the damsel's information, they would eventually meet before a Great House. After a brief exchange of instruction and well wishes, Alcarin and Aratan separated to pursue each lane. Whilst Aratan took five and twenty knights in his riding, Alcarin took the larger number, which tallied thirty souls.

As Aratan and his men advanced on the lane that crept near to the mountain, they were abruptly attacked from the bushes. Nevertheless, they had anticipated that an assault would come quickly and was able to pounce upon their enemies with a crushing blow. With angry, mighty thrusts, spears and battle-axes were soon bloodied as the knights' armors held true to their purpose. In the frantic confusion, Aratan drove a crippling blow to an Orc's head as one of his knights lay prostrate and struggling beneath the Orc whose raised axe was poised to deal a fatal strike.

On the north side of the village, Alcarin and his knights fared somewhat better, in that they were quickly able to subdue and slay their enemies, which comprised a smaller band. Howbeit, the wind blew steadily in their direction and the stifling, mordant smoke from the fires soon drove them impetuously onward. All around them the sound of crashing beams echoed balefully as rapid flames devoured them. Onward they rode, ignorant of their own peril for they did not yet remember that the lane upon which they traveled would soon bring them to its end where a line of Orcs, armed with bows and arrows, fearlessly awaited them.

Meanwhile, after the battle-horn had sounded, the Chief Captain and his men had kept to the obscurity of the dense wood and had made their way along an unmolested trail until they espied a Great House, which was partly built into the slope that formed the base of the mountain. Near this edifice, at the mouth of the wood, a hewing sound drifted to them. Halting their advent, the foremost knights stooped down and began to gesticulate to their fellow knights to keep their silence. Selmir, who because of his slight figure was the lightest on his feet, was soon separated for the task of ascertaining the situation. Furtively, he glided through the drooping boughs and thickets, taking great care to avoid rustling the dead leaves and branches that were strewn across the grassy forest floor until he came to an Alder tree. Cloaked by its trunk and low branches, from his vantage he perceived two Orcs attempting to plunge their axes into the sturdy trunk of an Oak tree to little avail as their axe-blades shivered and rang erratically. While he waited, wrestling with an adamant urge to shoot an arrow through their necks, the sound of an approaching battle grew dangerously louder precipitating the pell-mell retreat of the Orcs from the wood before their work was finished.

Weaving his way through the sparse birches until he came to stand in the shelter of the ponderously tall Oak tree, he began to survey his surroundings. Just beyond the forest's mouth, the Great House loomed impressively. It was encompassed by another high, stone wall through which the only hope of admittance was through a towering, redoubtable, wooden gate. Before this impediment, several Orcs watched eagerly as their cohorts tried to force the gate with continuous successive blows from their axes. Furiously, and in vain, some of the heavier Orcs threw themselves against the gate. Behind these were a line of archers who constantly bent their arrows upward into the darkness to prevent the assaults that reigned down upon their heads as villagers armed with heavy stones tried to maim or slay those who ventured within their deathly sphere.

Selmir, having witnessed these happenings, began to retrace his footsteps to apprise his comrades of the situation. At length, a plan was fixed. Its consummate victory, however, partly depended upon Alcarin or Aratan's timely appearance, lest perchance they should find themselves woefully outnumbered. When the knights arrived at the clearing, the scene had become more worrisome. The line of archers that was formerly turned towards the wall was now turned towards the north. It now became imperative to slay them forthwith.

"Long bows," said the Chief Captain. Twelve of the twenty knights came forward and began to ready their arrows in their bows. "We are yielding our position," said he, testing the string on his own bow before placing an arrow against it. "Make your aims sure." The knights stood in two lines; those foremost were kneeling and those behind were standing; all stood abreast of each other. At the Chief Captain's bidding, in one accord, their arrows sang swiftly through the air, striking down their foes. Immediately, a high-pitched clamor was stirred; surprise united with terror seemed to momentarily baffle the Orcs; hence, by the time the second wave of arrows came, they were too late in determining from whence they came and all of their archers were severely injured or slain.

Now was the time to attack before the remnant retrieved the bows and arrows of their fallen. Unsheathing his long sword, the Chief Captain yelled, "Swords!" Every man drew sword and flew from the woods as the arrows of one or two Orcs fell haply around them. Selmir indeed was powerfully struck by a lucky arrow, but his pauldron, under which he also wore steel mail, had repelled any serious damage to his shoulder.

A tumultuous commotion ensued as the greater number of Orcs abandoned their siege of the Great House and rushed bestially upon their adversaries. As the Chief Captain had feared, they were prodigiously outnumbered but were able to hold their own largely owing to their armor. Furthermore, as the Men of the West were highly favored with tall statures and marvelous strength, they were able, with deadly blows and heavy thrusts, to cut down their enemies.

In the heat of the battle, there was a horrible outcry as Orcs, hailing from the north and east lanes, where they had hasten to flee, began to scatter. The glint of steel accompanied by the whinnying of horses announced the arrival of Alcarin and Aratan, who were adamant in hindering the Orcs' retreat. A fierce, bloody battle persisted into the night, as the knights, resolved that none should escape, hunted down the Orcs and slew them. When it was over, all had been mercilessly and utterly destroyed. By sheer good luck, or perhaps by skill, or mayhap both, the knights of Gondor had prevailed without significant sacrifice. Sure, a few bones were broken, some were knocked senseless, others were slashed and cruelly battered, but for the better part, their outcome was fortunate.

On the other hand, several of the villagers had endured an entirely different fate having perished ere the bell had rung or later suffering a fiery grave in their homes. By midnight, the knights had secured the village and were already set to work containing and putting out the fires while the injured were borne to sick rooms. Orc carcasses were hauled outside the village where a large pit was already being dug by some of the more tireless villagers who had joined in on the latter part of the skirmish after forsaking their hiding places throughout the village.

While these events were transpiring, Vlamir, who had braved reentry into the village, went to the Great House to find his mistress. After searching for a good while, he found neither his mistress nor her mother. Thenceforth, for almost three hours, he sought them both until he eventually found her mother in the Great House where she was magnanimously attending upon the sick. When she saw him safe and unharmed, she was unspeakably relieved. When he asked after his mistress, they were soon unmistakably aware that something terribly ill had befallen. It was not like his mistress to cause her mother unnecessary worry especially at a grave time like this.

Helplessly, and somewhat reluctantly, Vlamir resolved to apply to one of the captains. He was strongly inclined toward Aratan, inasmuch that his disposition was by far the most amenable of the three. But since Aratan was charitably engaged with the burden of wounded men, whom he bore continuously to the sick room of the Great House, Vlamir was forced to wait.

In the woods, two knights had retired thither to forge their way back to the horses. As they went, they were sharing a biting jest at one of their comrade's expense when one lost his footing and would have fallen had he not been able to steady himself. With a blunt oath, he cursed the wretched tangled undergrowth that he thought was likely to make him break his neck. "An awful fate it would be to escape death in battle only to be cut down by a trifle like this."

"I don't think the bush is to blame, my friend," said his companion.

"What do you mean?"

The other knight was hovered over a dark mass. "Quick, Selmir! Bring the torchlight hither!"

Frowning, Selmir did as he was bidden and brought the torchlight to illuminate the thicket. Both men were startled. Sprawled across the forest floor was a lifeless, young boy. He was dressed in black breeches over which was hung a black, coarse doublet; the sleeves of his white undershirt were stained and rolled up to the elbows; he wore a sword belt around his waist but had no sword. Unlike the men of that time, his hair was shorn to a length that reached no further than the tips of his earlobes.

"Hold the light a little aloof, Friend Selmir," said the other Knight as his eyes roved the entire length of the boy's body. "I see no sign of injury." Again, he looked at the boy's face, his gaze lingered long. "Selmir, look here! What do you see?"

Selmir knelt down to take a long, hard look upon the slumbering face. By degrees, he marveled. "Mercy! Is this not a damsel?" It was too fine a physiognomy to cast off as a man's and a more careful inspection of her small hands, which were somewhat roughened by labor, strengthened their belief. "What are these marks?" He was looking intently upon her neck where several dark impressions were plainly evident. He and his friend exchanged a wary glance.

Kneeling closer, the other knight bent his head and listened at her breast. "She lives!" said he. "She lives." Gently, he lifted her head and began to check for any wound. Satisfied that there was none, he gathered her to his bosom and lifted her effortlessly. From there, he carefully conducted her through the wood until it was succeeded by the wide greensward before the Great House. Through the gates and up the steps to the front entrance he carried her until they came at last to the healing room.


	12. Nessa of Anórien

On the morning of the day that the Orcs had raided the village in West Anórien, Nessa had grumpily awoken to her mother's knocks and calls from the threshold of her bedchamber. "What is it, Mother?" asked she, with her eyes half closed and the side of her face still nestled in the tranquil comfort of her pillow.

"I'm sorry to wake you so early, dear," said her mother, who came to sit on the side of her bed, "but I just had word from Baran. He's a bit under the weather today and will not come to take the herds to graze." Her daughter groaned irritably into her pillow. "I know how much you dislike it, dear, but we cannot afford to keep them in. Besides, if your uncle, who has been so kind to grant us the use of his pen, should ever get wind of it, we'll never hear the end of it."

Nessa was considerably aroused by this exhortation. "My uncle! Since when have I ever cared about his opinion? I've never troubled myself to please him in one way or another, and I'm certainly not about to start now. He has done so very little for you, his own brother's widow. For myself, I would more quickly bear the shame of begging alms at the village gate rather than profit from his false kindness, which I know must cost him dearly to give."

"Nessa, child, you must not speak of your uncle in such a hateful and reckless manner," her mother gently chided. "I'm sure that if he was able to do more by us, he'd gladly do it. You should not judge him so severely."

"As you wish, Mother," Nessa abruptly submitted as she rose gloomily from beneath her bedclothes to sit next to her mother on the bed. "I suppose we'll never agree on this and it's far too early for quarrels."

Her mother, whose name was Morwen, touched her cheek tenderly. "I so wish that our lives had turned out differently," her eyes became downcast, "…and that your father was still here with us." She seemed to want to say more, but must have thought better of it because she suddenly grew solemnly silent.

Nessa, who had always seen her mother as a gem among the rough, as she watched her now, felt more than ever that she did not belong to that place. Her regal gait, her fine manners, her wide knowledge, together with a plethora of little things exalted her to a significant height above their coarse existence. "We've done our best, Mother," said she tenderly. "I think Father would be proud."

Morwen smiled sadly. "In many ways you are so like him." She brought her hand up to caress her daughter's hair. "I see him in you more and more each day." She smiled reminiscently. "Only, I do not think it likely that he would've been pleased to behold this dreadful mane. Oh, how it plagues my heart to see it! Such beautiful hair chopped off in a whim."

"Yes, Mother, you remind me of that every week," said Nessa, half amused by her mother's exaggerated feelings on the matter. "Shall I never have any peace about this? And I did not do it in a whim. You know why I keep it short. The heat from the furnace would be insufferable otherwise."

"I really wished that your father had never instructed you in that dismal trade," Morwen frowned. "It's unbecoming of any damsel, and still more so, of his own daughter. But far be it from me to have asserted my will over his."

"It's a worthy skill, Mother," protested Nessa, "and I'm honored to know it. We've earned a comfortable living by it. You should not despise the very thing that has sustained us through the poor harvests and droughts."

"Very well," her mother conceded. "Henceforth, on this matter, I shall endeavor to hold my tongue, if only to please you." Here, she rose from the bed. "After you've washed, come directly to the dining room. Adanel was up at first light and was able to bake several loaves of bread." At the door, her mother paused. "Vlamir is up. Will you take him with you?" Vlamir was Adanel's twelve year old son.

"Yes," replied Nessa, who was glancing thoughtfully at her own reflection in the looking glass.

Later, when she was finished with her breakfast, she went to her own quaint little library to choose a book to take with her. Ever since Adanel and Vlamir had come to them, she had assumed the challenge of teaching the young boy to read and write. However, this was mostly done at nights after their labors were finished and they were not too tired. Presently, she trailed her finger along a row of books until she came to the one she sought. She pulled it out and stuffed it into her satchel. With a complacent glance about the room, she inhaled deeply. Books were her passion and their scent had become like a sweet smelling savor to her. She hoped one day to add to their present, modest collection. Most of the books in their library had been a dowry of sorts that her mother had brought with her when she had married her father. In the past, when she had questioned her mother about their origin, her mother would say no more than they were gifted to her when she was just a girl.

During the years, her father had added to them by bargaining with nobles who came to commission swords or repair the ones that they already possessed. As most did not particularly care for books, they were little opposed to these terms. In addition, there were several books that her father, as the eldest son, had inherited. These were written in a language that neither he nor she was able to understand. As his ancestors had hailed from the lost kingdom of Arnor, they had reason to believe that these strange books were written in Quenya, the High-elven tongue that her father had heard his grandfather speak of when he was only a boy.

"Nessa, why do you tarry?" called her mother from the hallway. "Vlamir is ready."

When Nessa and Vlamir arrived at the holding pen, they were greeted by the sight of a tall, dark-haired young man who was standing at the fence talking to a boy. "Elendur, what are you doing here?" asked she as she wrestled to pull open the stubborn gate.

"I heard about Baran and thought that you might need a hand," he grinned sheepishly.

"It's very noble of you, I'm sure," said Nessa, who was not fooled for a moment by this half-sincere declaration; she had already discerned the other part of his motivation for being there. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself with us. What about your own herd?"

"I sent the boys along with them," replied he, his eyes fixated upon the greensward in front of the Great House.

Nessa's gaze was also drawn thither where a fair, young girl was frolicking about with a puppy. As she ran, her long, wavy, black hair was capriciously tossed about by the breeze. Her simple, though lovely, dark green dress graced her slender form perfectly. "Ever seeking that which is beyond your reach," she muttered to herself, speaking of her friend.

When with some difficulty they had driven the sheep and cattle through the alleyways, courtyard, and gates, they passed into the wide open fields where Elendur's herd was also grazing. While Vlamir played in the tall grass, Nessa sat under an Oak tree, which was common to those parts, conversing with Elendur. "Why do you insist upon pining away after my cousin?" asked she as she lazily leaned her head against the tree trunk. This Elendur had been her friend for most of the seventeen years of her life.

With a blade of grass in his mouth, Elendur laid himself down upon the green turf with his noble face set towards the clear, blue brightening heavens. At length, he said, "I can't explain it, Nessa." He turned upon his side to face her. "It's as though I'm under her spell. When I see her…or when I'm near her…" he closed his eyes in a transient wave of rapture, "it's as though I lose all reason. I'm easily become her fool. Just one word from those kind lips would be blessedness indeed. I think I could risk life, limb, and any dishonor for her…"

"Elendur! Pray, how frankly you speak and what nonsense it all is!" exclaimed Nessa, rudely interrupting him. "Upon my word, I can scarcely believe my own ears! And you know that it is all in vain for my uncle will not have you. No indeed! He has higher hopes for his daughter. Take my foolish advice. It would be better for you to put these…these absurdities out of your mind now while you still can."

"You're very harsh," said he testily. "But what compassion can I expect from you, who have not the tender feelings of your kind."

Nessa blushed profusely. She was immediately wroth with him; he had touched upon a very sore subject where she was concerned. "What do you know of my feelings?" said she angrily. "If I had any sense at all I would leave you to your own foolishness." She paused as she visibly tried to restrain her escalating temper. "But," said she in a forcibly calm voice, "my better feelings urge me…no…warn me to remind you of your place. My uncle would brook no interference from you or any other poor, amorous suitor in this village. You should be more prudent about where you plant your affection, Elendur. Though, from that ridiculous profession of yours, it might already be too late. Nevertheless, you must believe me. If I spoke thoughtlessly when I first began, I am sorry."

Notwithstanding, Elendur was bitterly offended. "Am I to be reviled because of my simple, honest livelihood?" He was on his feet looking out to the East where the sun had risen higher. "Have the times changed so much that a goodly house, land and livestock is no longer valued? These things taken together used to recommend a man to a father's favor. What is it that your uncle pretends to?" Nessa made no answer. She suspected something of her uncle's aspiration but it was not for her to bring it to light.

There was a noble lord from Anórien, whom she knew as Súrion, who had come to her once or twice to repair his sword. From generation to generation, this unique skill, which family history had recorded it to have been gained from the Elves, had been passed down through the eldest sons of their family. As her father had only her, he had not scrupled to teach her, his own flesh and blood, this precious and coveted art. Consequently, her father, and now her, had something of a reputation in Anórien for forging and repairing beautiful, valuable swords. The noblemen had only to bring their gems and materials, and she would craft it, as best as she could, into the sword that they desired.

It so happened that the second time that Súrion had brought his sword to repair, the young lass, her uncle's daughter, had caught his eye. He had mentioned it openly to her uncle, dwelling for a time upon the merits of the damsel's beauty, and ever since that happenstance, the foolish man had taken it to his bosom that his daughter should marry a nobleman. "Elendur, will nothing turn your affection?" He nodded. "Then I'm truly sorry for it."

"I don't need your pity, Nessa," said he in high dudgeon.

Thenceforth, Nessa held her peace. She had no desire to continue the argument and felt that she had done her part to warn him of the futility of the situation. "Vlamir!" cried she, pulling the book that she had brought from her bag. "It's time for your lesson." She looked up at Elendur and could not help the urge to conciliate him. "You must know that I mean well, Elendur. I would never purposely say anything to displease you unless it is well intended. In all these years that I've known you, you alone have accepted me without condition. Heaven knows that I've been like a stranger in this village. As I sense it in my mother, so it is with me. We do not naturally belong to this place."

"You've been saying that for a long time now," derided Elendur. "What other place could there possibly be that holds a claim upon your affection? This village is all that you know."

"You mock me," said Nessa morosely. "No matter. One day I might yet be able to make sense of this." Vlamir had already come and was sitting before his mistress breathing heavily. Irresistibly, she ran her hand over his head, lingering a while to play with his short, black locks, and would have pulled him close and kissed his head if she did not know that it would have mortified him. She was so terribly fond of him. To her he was like the little brother that she never had.

By early afternoon, Nessa, Vlamir and Elendur had returned to the safety of the village and had secured the animals in the pen for the night to come. There they had parted ways as Nessa and Vlamir had an errand to the smithy. Her uncle had left his sword, or rather, her father's inherited sword with her mother. He wanted her to sharpen the blade as he had heard rumors of Orc sightings in the nearby lands and rather anticipated than divined that there might be trouble. Moreover, his anxiety had been heightened by the recent discovery of several dead animals that had been viciously slaughtered in the forest beyond. Supposedly, he had relayed this information to a company of soldiers that had set up camp not two leagues north and was considerably put out by their apathetic reception, even venturing so far as to boldly and openly upbraid them by proclaiming that his taxes went for naught when he could not seriously rely upon their protection.

When Nessa returned home, she found her uncle waiting. As he was the village's Chieftain in her father's stead, he had ordered a special watch upon the gates and had placed a man in the belfry, which in nights past had remained unmanned. He did not stay long, but had said enough to recount his embarrassing experience with the high-flown lords of Minas Tirith, as he so deemed them.

After this, weary and famished, Nessa and Vlamir were finally able to sit down to their supper, which they ate with as much alacrity as someone who had not eaten for a great many days together. As Morwen and Adanel had quitted the house with her uncle to go to the Great House, there was no one there to reprove them. It was before they were finished with the last dregs of their supper that the bell began to ring. The violent agitations that this created were indescribable. As the dire suspicions of her uncle was still fresh in their thinking, both she and Vlamir were momentarily immovable in their chairs until a thunderous knock, which caused them both to jump so fearfully that it loosened the fleeting rigidity of their limbs, called them to their right senses. "Nessa! Vlamir! Open up!" It was Elendur.

"Why are you still here?" he straightway chastised when she had released the latch on the door. "Make haste and leave at once for the Great House. The gates were breached some quarter of hour before the bell was rung and the front quarters are overrun with Orcs. The men are doing what they can to stay their advance, but there are so few of us." The chaos from outside had only reached Nessa's ears when she had opened the door. Such loathsome and heinous shrieks drifted through the doors that made her heart quail. "I must go now! Do not tarry!" said he, taking a firm hold of her hand to stress his admonition.

"But where are you going?" asked she in a terrified voice.

"To help the others," said he, descending the steps into the neat, little garden. "I must do my part to defend our people."

"But, Elendur, you know nothing of the sword."

"That may be, but I have two hands that shouldn't be idle when they can aim a good blow or two." With these words, he rushed through the gate and off in the direction of the Square.

"Fool!" muttered Nessa while running to her bedchamber where she hastily pulled a sword belt from her open cupboard. She knelt down on the stone floor and dragged a long wooden trunk from beneath her bed. She inserted a key into this and lifted the lid. A splendid sword, with an exquisite hilt and blade, lay comfortably in the box. Cautiously, she lifted it from the box, taking great care with the blade, which was sharp on both sides. Next, she lifted the bottom section of the box and removed a matching sheath and fitted the sword into it and attached it to the sword belt around her waist. She had promised Lord Tarcil that she would guard it with her life. He had confided to her that it was a family heirloom that was closely tied to the matter of his estate.

Running to the library, she went to the desk, grabbed several pieces of parchment from its drawer, and with trembling hands, began to draw a map. The noise that drifted through the partially open window was now magnified tenfold. With the direction of the wind, from time to time, the fallen speech of the Orcs swelled in the air. Bent over the desk with her forehead resting on her palm, she added her best guesses about various distances within the village that might be of some aid to the persons to whom the map was intended. How she was able to illustrate it on the parchment was beyond her, for the hand of fear and dread was heavily upon her, impairing even her ability to think properly.

When she was done, as so often happens when one is acting under situations of duress, she doubted herself; she felt that the map was false, yet, she knew with certainty that it was a faithful guide. Fortunately, she was not too often guided by her emotions or else she might have yielded to the temptation to begin anew. Almost spilling the inkwell with her nervous movements, she brought forth another piece of parchment and began to write a letter addressed to the Captains that her uncle had mentioned earlier that evening. When she was done, she blew out the candles and dashed hurriedly from the room, yelling for Vlamir.

With the boy's hand held firmly within her grasp, Nessa stole silently from the back door of their house after securing it with a key. Creeping along vigilantly, they kept close to the trees that skirted the plot of their tilled land until it gave way to the thick forest that ascended into the mountain. Here, they ventured into an exceedingly knotted path that would have undoubtedly lost them if they had not known something of the way. When after some brief pauses and meditations they had passed behind the Great House to the other side, Nessa prepared Vlamir for his errand.

"Vlamir, I want you to take this," said she, handing him a scroll that was tied with a string.

"What is it?" asked he, accepting the scroll that his mistress held out to him. The summer sky was still light, but the closeness of the forest hindered that light from penetrating to them.

"I've written to summon help." She quickly explained to him what she intended.

"But how shall I get there?" asked he, suddenly fearful of parting with her.

"You shall go up to Old Man Haldad's lodge and ask him to lend you one of his horses."

"But you know how much he hates trespassers," complained Vlamir, who had grown pale with the mention of Haldad.

"Do not be afraid of his temper," Nessa encouraged, though in her mind she wished that she did not have to send poor Vlamir on his own to face the old man's wrath.

"Why can't you come with me?" begged Vlamir.

"Think of our mothers, Vlamir," said Nessa patiently as she knelt on the forest floor before him. "I must return to them. You're our last hope. Stick to the path!" She looked around warily. "Henceforth, it should be safe. And remember what I have taught you. Don't allow the horse to control you. Old Man Haldad's horses are used to strangers and he will counsel you well. Take heed to what he tells you, Vlamir. Wretch that he is, I know that he still has a heart; I chanced to see this spectacle once and he may yet have compassion on us in our time of need. Now fly!"

Heartened by this appeal, Vlamir retreated some yards from his mistress, took one last anxious glance at her, and then flew up the path that led to Old Man Haldad's lodge. He was an old warden from the land of Rohan who had charge over the wardens that lit the beacon upon the hill of Halifirien.

After he was gone, Nessa watched long after him. "May the Valar protect you," she whispered remorsefully when pondering the wisdom of her action. At length, she began to think of returning. The vague sound of the wild boars that inhabited that part of the wood also hastened her retreat. Her mind now turned to that other difficulty that was before her. What if the gates to the Great House were already shut? It was their appointed place of refuge for times such as these. As she craved neither death by sword or memorial by brave deeds, the way of careful preservation was naturally her first choice. There was too much in the world that she had not yet seen and so much knowledge to gain; these were the pleasures to which her heart loftily aspired. To that end, she stooped down and began to plot her course.

Her most urgent aim was to return to the Great House to inform her uncle of the succor that may yet come before they were utterly ruined. If that way proved impossible to achieve however, she would be forced to remain in the wood, which did not present a desirable prospect, though it was perhaps the safest of all her imagined schemes. Notwithstanding, the former choice now provoked her footsteps back to the east where her village dwelt in the shadow of the mountain.

In retracing her path, she began to be oppressed by an ominous presence. Once or twice she had halted to listen quietly, and except for the normal sound of the encompassing wood-life, the forest seemed undisturbed. No sooner than she had turned to proceed a third time, a heavy grip took a firm hold of her slender neck and began to suppress her free breath. Terrified, she began to struggle wildly until gasping horribly, her vision began to darken. Before the faintness had completely smothered her senses, she felt herself falling and then borne up by rough hands. "Take the sword," said a calm, hoarse voice. That was the last thing that she heard before being thrust helplessly into blackness.

The next day when she regained herself, her head was throbbing. For some time she laid still, groaning inwardly from the sharpness of a strange pain that shot through her left forearm. By degrees, a nearby conversation, carried on in hushed tones and spoken in a foreign tongue, penetrated through her wavering confusion. Her eyes fluttered open. She was in a room with a high ceiling; it was dimly lighted and here and there, she saw shadows; some were bent and attending upon others who were lying upon beds like hers, others were consulting quietly together, and a few walked to and from the outer hall on various errands. The perfumed fragrance of herbs pervaded the atmosphere creating a soothing balm upon her senses, which were now fully revived.

From whence the strange tongue proceeded, there were four strangers standing together. With the failing light, for it was already dusk of the next day, she could barely discern their faces, until two of the company, passing before her pallet, chanced to look her way. They were very fair to look upon and impossible to tell apart; moreover, the youth and beauty of their faces could scarcely be reconciled to anything that she had ever seen before and fashioned after an unearthly sort.

"My poor girl," said a gentle whisper close to her ear. "I thought I had lost you."

"Mother."

"How are you feeling, my dear?" asked Morwen, kissing her daughter's forehead.

"A little thirsty."

"Yes, of course," said Morwen, rising to fetch a glass of water.

"Who are these people?" asked Nessa when her mother returned.

"Rumor has it that they are Elves from the North Country."

"Elves!"

"Yes dear. The ladies are exceedingly fair to look upon. I saw a few of them early this afternoon here in the Great House." She glanced over at two tall men who were helping to lift an injured man to another pallet. "And there, my child, is our king," whispered she. "The other is his Chief Captain. It was he and his captains who delivered us out of the mighty hand of our enemies. I don't think he has rested these two days together. They've been at work all day putting out fires and searching through the ruin for the dead."

It was easy for Nessa to determine which was king and which was servant, though the two men were very alike in appearance; that is, in the particulars of their race, for the Chief Captain was indeed a Dúnadan from the lost Kingdom of Arnor. Notwithstanding, the king's garments readily distinguished him as the liege lord of Gondor. The other was dressed in battle armor, upon which was emblazoned the symbol of the White Tree and the Seven Stars. His thick hair, which was gathered at the nape of his neck, was woven into a long braid that fell to his waist. "Vlamir!" said she suddenly alarmed. "Where is he?"

"Calm yourself, child," implored Morwen. "He is somewhere about. I could get no peace from him today so I sent him away."

Nessa was considerably relieved. Now that the events of the day before were slowly returning to her memory, she grew gloomily burdened. "And Elendur?" Her mother assured her that he was safe, though he had broken his leg. "Fleeing from the enemy, no doubt," she laughed, unable to resist this inducement to amuse herself at Elendur's expense. It was the first thought that had come to her mind after hearing this bit of news.

"I see you're in good spirits," observed an unfamiliar voice. It was King Elessar. He knelt down next to her pallet and asked to examine her arm, which he had bounded earlier that day. As he touched it, she winced. "You're a fortunate girl," said he, calmly as he examined her hand.

As he did as he pleased, Nessa furtively studied his face. It was a stern, handsome face that was somewhat reminiscent of her people. His eyes were light grey and there was a touch of sadness in their depths. The way he kindly attended upon her was the first seed planted that would greatly influence her good opinion of him hereafter. When he was done, she thanked him for his kindness and promised to do as he instructed for the after care of her injury.

Here, he was joined by the Chief Captain who was ready to pass from the room. Nessa could not see his face for by now the room was considerably darkened and the candles had not yet been brought in. All that she saw was his eyes, which she unhesitatingly judged had not its equal in beauty. They were cold and distant, but as blue as the firmament on its fairest day; or as blue as the richest sapphire reaped from the depth of the earth's mantle; or, mayhap, as blue as the deepest reaches of the vast open seas. From that day forth, the solemn beauty of those eyes were engraved in her memory.


	13. The Estate

_Updated character illustrations at homepage link in profile._

* * *

It was impossible that with her father's passing things would continue as they did before. Howbeit, Rien could not have foreseen the insidious darkness that was about to infest and devastate her life.

The days following her father's death had been surfeit with the comings and goings of neighboring noblemen of whom none was more important than the Sheriff of the County who had declared himself sincerely baffled by the tragic slaying of her dear Papa. According to him, neither he nor his comrades were able to find the slightest trace of her father's steward whom he was convinced was the only one capable of shedding the most informative light upon the situation; that is, besides the malefactors that had carried out this dastard act. The tenants had all sworn to seeing nothing and hearing nothing of their landlord's fate until the dreadful news had reached them. And, as her father had not had any sustainable lucid moment before his passing in which to dispel this shroud of mystery, only one way forward remained opened to them. They had to find the steward. Whether he had suffered a similar fate or was still alive, they had yet to determine. Until then, there could be no justice for Lord Tarcil.

"Poor Papa," Rien muttered as she walked along the graveled way, the echo of the crushing stones beneath the pressure of her steps heralding her approach to a napping Lady Riniel. For that good matron, the last fortnight had been an emotional upheaval that had finally begun to take its toll physically. It was only yesterday that they had laid her beloved to rest in the tomb of his forefathers just behind the castle. It had been a peaceful day –a memorial befitting the man's life itself except in death.

"Rien, dear, I think it's time that we talk of our future." Lady Riniel drew the black shawl closer around her shoulders and began to pour two glasses of lemonade for herself and her daughter who was climbing the short steps to enter the garden gazebo at the north side of the castle. All around them, the pleasant redolent of roses, ivy and jasmine hung thickly in the air.

Dressed in a solemn black dress, the young girl sank into the chair across from her mother and tossed a bouquet of freshly picked long-stemmed roses aside. "Yes Mama."

"Lord Calmacil should join us shortly," said Lady Riniel, looking worriedly at the discarded posy near her daughter's feet, "but I thought I should speak to you first."

"What is it, Mama?"

"First, you must not be alarmed when you've heard all that I have to say. Andreth and I have already worked it out and we are determined that we should succeed."

"The Castle," said Rien dispiritedly. She raised her eyes to meet her mother's as if she had already divined the truth. "Is this about the castle?"

"Yes." Lady Riniel cautiously observed her daughter. She knew how much Rien treasured the old place and it wounded her to think that her child, Lord Tarcil's only child, should be turned out of it when it should have rightfully been the reward of her birthright. "As Lord Calmacil will explain later, with your father's passing, the castle will fall to his guardianship until…until the legal heir is found."

A simple, "Oh," was the dispassionate reply. It was not the response that Lady Riniel had anticipated and the vacant look in her daughter's eyes disturbed her. "Rien, dear, are you tired? Shall you go in?"

"No," said Rien at length, her eyes suddenly brightening. "How could Father allow this?"

"This was not your father's doing," Lady Riniel calmly remonstrated. "Do not accuse him unjustly."

"Forgive me, Mama," repented Rien after noticing the hurt look on her mother's face. "I spoke rashly just now."

"It's already forgotten. But you must never again speak of your father in that manner before my face."

"Yes Mama. I am indeed sorry. I am not ungrateful."

"Yes. I believe you. But we must despair." Rien nodded. "Now, I know the matter is a disagreeable one, but we must discuss it. There was nothing that your father could have done to prevent this. The terms of the Estate have remained unchanged through each successive generation, and from Lord Calmacil's information, will continue in that way until they are renewed."

"Renewed?"

"Yes. The time is drawing near when the present heir will once again possess the right to bestow the property according to his own wishes." She wearily caressed her temple. "Your father had hoped to see that day to set things right. Until then, he, like his fathers, had to abide the terms of the estate."

"What shall we do then? Where shall we go?"

Lady Riniel was pleased with this modest show of resilience. "Well, like I said, Andreth and I have been thinking and we've decided to re-open the house in Minas Tirith."

"You mean…you mean the one that Grandmamma intended for my dowry?"

"The very one."

"But it's been shut up for all these years since Grandmamma died."

That was true. There would certainly be a considerable cost in reopening the house which had most likely fallen into disrepair not only through the decay of time, but with all that had happened during the siege of the city. Still, it was their only permanent course. "I expected more enthusiasm," Lady Riniel mildly reproached. "Nevertheless, we will manage it."

Rien remained doubtful. "But the money, Mama…can we afford it?" She could not help thinking about just how much their own castle had changed since she was a small child. Once upon a time there had been dozens of knights residing in the bowels of that grand edifice until the number had dissipated into a bare nothing as the tide of perpetual strife had begun to devour the land and with it, their prosperity.

"If we are careful, I think we can." She suddenly straightened in her chair. "Ah, here is Lord Calmacil to see us."

Sure enough, when Rien turned around, there was a rotund middle-aged man briskly approaching along the graveled-way that was thronged on either side by a profuse array of pink and white rose bushes. He had a younger man close in tow that was darker, taller, and much leaner in his person. "Hallo there, Lady Riniel," he called breathlessly. "Pleasant Afternoon to you." Bows, greetings and introductions were exchanged before all four seated themselves to discuss the matter at hand. Half way through their conversations, Lord Calmacil abruptly stated, "It's a bad business, but not too unfortunate I hope. If my lad here cannot find the legal heir within another five years, the castle shall be yours."

Both Lady Riniel and Rien were deeply perplexed. "Is…Is that true?"

"In no uncertain terms, Lady Riniel," answered Lord Calmacil taking the unsteady glass of lemonade that she passed to him. "From father to son, my family has had the charge of upholding the terms of this estate in accordance with Lord Dalmir's explicit wishes. I assure that I am well schooled in even the minutest particulars of this estate."

Rien, who was sitting quietly by, was positively distracted by this unique personage whose sheer presence presented an intriguing contradiction for her careless study. Was it even possible that someone as corpulent as he was could think and move that sprightly? Yet, the man had an unquenchable manner about him that augured a profitable conclusion to whatever aims he undertook. Despite his generous dimensions, there was nothing slothful about him either in effort or appearance. His dress fitted precisely. His knee high boots were polished and spotless. Even his thick coarse grey hair was neatly combed. His face, which was not exactly a handsome one, was at least a good-natured one. His keen grey eyes, which were perhaps his most attractive feature, bespoke something of his practical wisdom and frank personality.

"But…but how? How is that even possible?"

"You're thinking of that Súrion reprobate."

Lady Riniel smiled just barely but did not openly condone this disparaging speech however much she agreed with its sentiment. "We thought all was lost."

"The only thing Lord Dalmir deplored more than his castle falling into the hands of a witless woman –pardon me, Lady Riniel but those were his own words– was the thought of his estate falling to his uncle's line." He leaned forward and rested his intertwined hands upon the crown of his staff, which seemed to serve some other purpose contrary to that of a walking aid. "From his writings, it is clear that even in old age, Lord Dalmir still held his uncle complicit for the dishonor that he had brought upon the family some forty years before. Thus, he enacted the entailment vowing that none from that line should inherit this property."

Rien thought of Lord Dalmir, a man whom her father had spoken very little of during his lifetime despite his wont of an evening from time to time to give long-winded accounts on the private deeds of his forefathers. There was a grand painting of him in the dining hall. He was a somber looking man with iron grey hair and brown austere eyes. He was her great grandfather thrice removed. In their family history, he was singularly reputed for being the most miserly of masters that the castle life had ever seen. Rather than perpetuating the mistakes of his predecessors, who had seem to deem excess as a necessary imperative of their noble standing, he had rejected their ways and began a strident life of economy, which by the close of his life had left him a wealthier man than he had been at the beginning. During his life, his wife had borne him two children, the elder being he who had sired Lord Tarcil's line and the younger being a daughter of whom they now knew precious little of. She had been forced to marry a wealthy lord of vast landed property in North Anórien whom rumor had it then was in fact a lunatic. Unable to forgive her father for this transgression, she had broken ties with him and all of her relations and had withdrawn to a life of seclusion.

"Nevertheless, as Súrion is now the only living patriarch that we know of, I'm sorry to say that there might be some unpleasantness to come over which I can exert but little influence."

"What do you mean?" demanded Lady Riniel.

"You my dear," he said, catching Rien's light grey eyes. "Until the day you marry, or the legal heir is found, Súrion is to act as your guardian, or shall we say your protector, in the place of your father."

Lady Riniel paled. "Nonsense! Absolute nonsense!"

Lord Calmacil smiled empathically. "Indeed I am sorry to be the bearer of such tidings, Lady Riniel, but that is the way it must be for now. He need not interfere with your authority, but there are some principal matters whereby his consent will of course be necessary. Bear with it for now. My young lad here has already begun to seek the legal line. We still hold hope that there is someone out there who would be able to deliver you from this troublesome circumstance." When he saw that Lady Riniel was still unmoved, he added, "Faith, Milady. We are yet to fail."

"You admonish faith, but finding the legal heir still means the loss of the castle."

"Yes -­­­but I think you would agree that it would be the better fate…"

"To Lord Súrion," finished Lady Riniel.

"I don't understand," muttered Rien. "How have you even begun to trace that line when Father said that his great-great-grandfather attempted to recover his sister but in spite of that had found no sign of her since the fire?"

"Excellent!" said Lord Calmacil with an exuberant clap of his hands. "Excellent! Shall we explain it to her, my dear boy?"

"If I may, Sir," said the sun-burnt young man who had been deliberately silent up until now. Like his father, he had a thick head of hair, though his was black from the roots to the tips and slightly curled. He was perhaps somewhere in his late twenties and had a friendly open face that was rather appealing. He was clad in a pale blue under-tunic that had a gold thread design woven into the collar and sleeves. Over this he wore a dark navy surcoat with black knee high leather boots completing his raiment.

Lord Calmacil nodded. "You see, Lady Rien, when Lord Dalmir made his will some years ago, he made two special provisions for his children, your thrice-great grandsire and his sister. Since your father's line has never failed to produce an heir until now, the other line of legal inheritance was largely disregarded, sad to say, through the careless neglect of my fathers." He glanced at his father, who was raptly fiddling with his staff. "As you must also already know, Lord Dalmir, in order to further secure the wealth of his family, had forced his daughter to marry a prosperous lunatic." He paused contemplatively, rubbing his chin with his thumb. "They say it was a common failing among the nobles at that time to disregard this malady as a simple peculiarity in his personality. Still, one has to wonder how a proud man like Lord Dalmir would allow such a marriage. They used to say that he would sell…"

Lord Calmacil loudly cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, the fact is, Lady Rien, we can trace something of the daughter up until the time of the fire when her husband perished at his own hands. After that it became more difficult, but through several friendly leads, we were able to make some progress."

"Then you also have already met with obstacles."

"Yes, but that is to be expected. We harbor no false impression that this task will be an easy one. However, we are prepared to pursue it to the end."

"If –when you do find the heir, how can you be certain that he is the one?"

"There is a certain thing in particular that will help us to identify the rightful heir. On the marriage of his children, Lord Dalmir presented each with a jeweled sword. These swords would symbolize the protection of his legacy. They are said to be identical in appearance except for a single distinguishing feature. Finding the sword means finding the heir."

Rien was familiar with the sword. Before now she had never understood the grave significance that her father had always placed on it. "But what if it was lost or even sold through the vicissitudes of their lives? Who is to say that the one who possesses it now is truly the legal heir?"

"Do you really think that, my dear?" interrupted Lord Calmacil, looking a bit disappointed with her reasoning, as if she had fallen short of his expectation.

"Well…it is possible."

"Yes, I suppose it is, Lady Rien, however slight the chance. You see, there are certain possessions that some hold almost as dear as their own lives because of what they represent. These heirlooms are no different. However deep the rift had been between Lord Dalmir and his daughter, we know already that she had the sword in her possession when she had fled her burning home to take refuge in a neighboring hall." Lord Calmacil held her gaze sympathetically before turning to her mother. "In the meantime, Lady Riniel, though your feelings may oppose it, treat that nobleman with all due deference. If you must cross him, be sure to do it backhandedly. A puffed up fellow like that must be handled carefully. Be wary, but polite." He wiped his lips in his napkin after taking a long sip from the half empty glass of lemonade. "Now, shall we go in to have a look at that sword? It looks like rain."

* * *

In the East, in the city of Minas Tirith, the late afternoon sun forged a mellow drape across the darkening sky that peeped through one of the opened windows of a house situated on the fifth level of the city. Within those walls bustled at least a dozen servants, submitting and catering to their master's bidding. In a room on the lower floor of this house sat its stiff patriarch, Lord Eluchil, bedecked in a rich dark purple elegant surcoat that was embellished with gold trimmings around the collar and edges. His meticulously groomed person was a veritable reflection of his impeccable surroundings. His shoulder-length, evenly-trimmed, silver-white hair brushed his shoulders as he turned his shrewd grey eyes to regard his visitors. "Lord Tarcil, did you say?"

"Yes Father." Lady Erendi, who was sitting next to Arien, appeared cowed.

"I thought I forbade you to never again mention that name in my presence."

"Yes, I know Father," Lady Erendi admitted, "but given the circumstances, I thought it best to tell you...lest you should be caught at unawares by someone else."

"You thought foolishly," he peevishly snapped.

"I'm sorry, Father, but…but how can you be so…so…"

"Heartless?" Lady Erendi did not affirm it but it was clear enough in her expression that her thoughts agreed with his conclusion. "Tell me, Erendi, will you also defy me?" His inexorable, imperious gaze challenged hers until hers faltered beneath his.

"No Father."

All this was unpleasant to Arien's feelings as she sat silently by. She had never seen Lady Erendi as docile and fearful as she appeared in this meeting. She was almost ashamed to witness it.

"Where's my blasted tea?" Lord Eluchil snatched up the bell and began to ring it irritably.

'What an offensive old man!' Arien thought, shuddering inwardly. She could not believe that this was Lady Erendi's father. Outwardly, his appearance emulated that of his rank but his manner was in all respects terribly wanting. She had imagined him much, much differently. As it was, he was barely civil to her even on this first interview.

"Well, if that is all Father, Lady Arien and I shall be off."

Lord Eluchil did not respond when his daughter bent to kiss his cheek. Nor did he acknowledge Arien's polite farewell before she partly flew to the door. "I don't know why I even bother," said Lady Erendi when they were safely clear of the house. She looked apologetically at Arien. "You must think me a coward."

Arien averted her eyes. "Is he always like that?"

Lady Erendi nodded. "I have never known him any other way. I have feared him ever since I was a small child."

"But surely you have nothing to fear from him now."

Lady Erendi smiled. "I have an unshakeable regard for my father. He is unpleasant; he is ill-tempered and possibly the most irredeemable man alive. Nevertheless, he is my father. It's easy to respond indignantly to his loathsome behavior, but I choose to endure it patiently. I think of it as an advantageous lesson in temperance."

"You're very forbearing," said Arien, thinking of the last few hours.

"I admit it takes a kind of unnatural strength to submit in that way, but each visit I go prepared to be tried."

"Who is Lord Tarcil?" In the rapidly fading light, the smile on Lady Erendi's face slackened as they continued to climb upward towards the sixth level of the city. "It's just that your father seemed genuinely displeased when you mentioned that name."

"He's someone that my father quarreled with many years ago. And, as you can probably tell, my father is not a man to be trifled with. He never forgives and he never forgets even the smallest of offenses."

By now the street lighters were abroad with their torches to kindle the lamp posts. The twilight was receding to give way to the gloomy darkness that threatened a heavy downpour. "Was it a serious offense?"

"Yes, I suppose it was," answered Lady Erendi sadly, but evasively before pointedly changing the subject.

Arien understood that there was more to this story that Lady Erendi was unwilling and unlikely to reveal. However, that did not discourage her curiosity, which was perhaps fostered in part by the distinct picture of malice that she had seen upon Lord Eluchil's face when Lord Tarcil was mentioned. "Well, thank you for having me," said she, halting before the steps of her house. "I shall be ready to leave as soon as you send word."

* * *

"Lord Tarcil's sword!" repeated a ghastly-stricken Morwen, sinking down into a chair around the table where her daughter sat alone in the kitchen of the Great House.

Ever since Nessa had awoken the night before and the theft of the priceless sword had flooded her memory, she could not reconcile herself to the loss. "I am so ashamed." Morwen, who still appeared to be mightily shaken, could not yet bring herself to offer any words of comfort. "I'm sorry, Mother. I know that Lord Tarcil entrusted the sword to me solely because of you."

Morwen did not deny this. "It's not your fault," she finally said after her distress was somewhat abated.

"Who else could have known that I had the sword?" Nessa lamented. "Everything was done in secrecy. Lord Tarcil saw to it. No one beyond our little family circle knew anything of it. Not even Uncle or Elendur." She despaired. The matter was a somber one. Her reputation and livelihood were bound to be tarnished by this piece of bad luck. Yet, the root of her misery was entirely that of Lord Tarcil's loss. It did not matter that their house, along with all of her cherished books, had been consumed in the ruthless fires. All that mattered was Lord Tarcil's sword. Nothing that would henceforth happen to her and her family could measure against this failure of trust. They had their livestock. They had other means by which to support themselves in their simple existence. They would manage. But the sword…the importance that Lord Tarcil had placed on it, ate away at her mind.

"There is probably very little chance of recovering it," said her uncle later that day when she had related the story to him without divulging any information about the sword's ownership. "I understand that there are rangers among the king's host. Mayhap one of them could shed some light upon the situation. They are supposed to be good at this kind of thing. Either way, at least you might be able to make your peace with this."

Nessa had conceded her uncle's point and before long was talking with Lord Anárion whom she found just outside the great house near the paddock with one of her uncle's stable-hands giving directions as to the care of the horses that were to bear the travelers onward on the morrow into the land of Rohan. There were also two strangers there with him whose unblemished youthful beauty caused her to pause. She knew that they were elves. She had seen a few more of them in the great house that day.

"Is the horse injured?" asked she as she watched the two elves attend to a chestnut palfrey that was lying on its side in the grass. Where he knelt, the golden-haired elf was examining the horse's right hind leg while the dark-haired elf was gently petting its velvety coat and whispering something in a foreign tongue.

"They think it's a tendon," Anárion frowned. "Lady Melénya thinks it hard to be parted from her horse. We think it likely that it must remain behind to prevent any further mischief to the swollen leg."

"There's an old warden from the land of Rohan who lives up in the mountain. He's very good with horses. If the lady decides to leave her horse behind, perhaps old Haldad could be of some help. They say he's the best this side of the stream when it comes to nursing horses back to health."

"Sounds reasonable. I shall propose it to her."

Though Lady Melénya was indeed opposed to parting with her horse, she acknowledged that it could not be helped and was willing to trust Haldad with the horse's care on the single condition that Nessa herself would ensure that no harm came to the horse in her stead. Nessa did not like the imposition, but allowed it to be so since she herself was soliciting the help of others in her own desperate quest to recover Lord Tarcil's sword. Still, she had her own troubles to contend with and had no desire whatsoever to enter into anyone else's.

"Now that it's settled, point the way," said Anárion after they had restored the injured horse to its temporary haven in the stables. "We should hurry. If the storm arrives before we've covered much ground, the search becomes futile." Lady Melénya, after some persuasion, had returned to the tents outside the village, while Prince Legolas and Lord Anárion accompanied Nessa into the dense mountain foliage where even then the kings of Gondor and Rohan were at the tower at its peak renewing the Gift of Cirion and the Oath of the Eorl that established the allegiance that existed between their two realms.


End file.
